


Strawberry Moon

by vrginsacrifice



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: ...so i guess they fit perfectly, A LOT of Jealous Pining, Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, F/F, Infidelity, Jealous Pining, Light Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Unrequited Love, idk man these tags are melodramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vrginsacrifice/pseuds/vrginsacrifice
Summary: Just another Hollywood lesbian AU. Trixie is a struggling music artist  discovered by a sleazy Hollywood manager; however, his Russian trophy bride (along with her small-waisted young lover) complicate and confuse Trixie’s rise to fame.





	1. your dreams, they're entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translations located in the End Notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "In Tow" - Kauf}

“Shit.”

For the second time, she’d completely fucked up the precise line of her eyeliner—her hands shaking, an erratic cocktail of excitement and fear trilling through her fingers. After all, this was her big break, right? Finally. After two long years of playing acoustic open mics at Sashay Latte and all those shitty hipster dives in Eagle Rock, she’d been 'discovered' by a big shot manager who wanted to make her a legend, icon, star.  Or, at the very least, wanted to vet her for Saboteur Records. _The_ Saboteur Records. The very same studio that used to produce tracks for Rolaskatox (Rolaskatox!) before their meteoric split.  The very same studio responsible for Alaska after she went all Beyonce and blew everyone out of the water with her solo career. Like, tonight was a huge deal. A huge fucking deal. Everything needed to be perfect. She needed to be perfect.

And here she was—completely incapable of painting a straight line. Of completing her signature look. Something she did every single morning before dragging her ass to her day job at the boutique, pandering to pumped-up L.A. housewives wallowing in luxurious despair. As much as she loved make-up, she hated retail work. All the lying and the ass-kissing and the general sense of listlessness that dogged her every step. She was an artist. She’d moved to Hollywood to pursue her dreams. To make it big.

Goddamn, she was a tried-and-true bubble-gum cliche. 

Trixie threw down the applicator.

“Woah,” drawled a voice behind her, laughing, “Chill out, dude.” At her bedroom door, Trixie’s cousin Pearl slumped against the jamb, playing with the flowing gauze of her bohemian maxi dress. Amused, she sauntered through. Flopping down on Trixie’s bed, she pulled a small white joint, offering it to her.

“Don’t light that,” Trixie panicked, “I don’t need to go into this dinner smelling like grass.”

Pearl shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t know why you’re flipping out. It’s gonna be chill.”

She loved Pearl to death but her cousin just didn’t get it—the hunger, the needing. The go-for-broke drive to succeed in her art. Pearl-Girl’s parents lived a cozy palm-shaded palace in Bel-Air and financed their darling daughter’s cool-breeze bohemian Silver Lake bungalow. Pearl could float through life, all beautiful and cool, spinning as DJ Vladonna at the hottest clubs, cozying up to B-List starlets and socialites, trotting silver-fox 'daddies' into the apartment at all hours. In a way, Trixie envied her. It was hard not to be jealous of a girl like Pearl.

“I heard Von Shayd is a real sleaze,” Pearl said, falling back on the bed, inspecting her cuticles, “And like, not in…a hot way? Just kinda gross. But dude, he is the real fuckin’ deal, alright? He wouldn’t invite you out to like…some fancy dinner if he wasn’t interested in your shit. So, you can cool it, okay?”

“I guess,” Trixie murmured, fussing with her hair in the mirror. Curled just right. Big and voluminous. Sexy but sweet. “All of this makes me wanna stick my finger in an electrical socket and call it a day.”

“Who else is gonna be there?”

“Um…This guy, Saint Tino? He’s this up-and-coming fashion designer from Los Feliz or something,” Trixie said, bending into the mirror to finish her lips,  “And this actress/model type. I think her name’s Lavender. And…and, uh…oh! His wife or something.”

Pearl snickered, twirling her leg into the air. “Oh my God,” she croaked, long and slow, “Detox told me about her. She’s brand new. Fresh outta her packaging.”

“Who? The Lavender girl?”

“No, no…Shayd’s wife,” Pearl said, turning over, nearly crushing two of the outfits that Trixie had carefully laid out on her bedspread. Trixie whisked them away, just in time. “She’s like…his third or something. Get this though: a legit mail-order bride. Just this super blonde sex-bomb cam-hoe from Russia or something. Like from the Internet and shit.”

“That’s great and all…but, which one?” Distracted, Trixie raised two outfits, dangling the hangers from her manicured fingers. Gossip about Van Shayd’s hooker wife was the absolute least of her concerns right now. 

Pretending to contemplate the two, while Trixie stood there in her fucking lingerie, Pearl then smirked. “Definitely the pink one.”

Trixie laughed. “Bitch.”

Pearl rolled off the bed. “Either,” she said, waving her hand as she ambled toward the door, “Whatever, dude. You’ll look great. You’ll do great. You always look like a fucking Barbie. Don’t stress it. I never do.”

Alone in her bedroom, Trixie sighed, staring at both dresses, her hands on her hips. “Right. Thanks a lot, Pearlie.”

She chose a cutesy little number, replete with lace and a bow, with a pair of pumps that put her back two full paychecks. But, as she stared at herself in the mirror, breathing deep and spreading her hands down her dress, she looked really good. Damn good. Polished, put-together, primed for stardom.

Traffic was hell. But in Los Angeles, that was just par for the course, right? Since she’d moved to the West Coast, she’d miscalculated and underestimated the traffic too many times—missing reservations, appointments, and even dates—to not have this down pat, distilled into a perfect unclockable formula. Yet, it seemed the world delighted in fucking her today; and sure enough, when she left for downtown in her old clunker, she hadn’t accounted for an accident on Sunset or for whatever-the-hell was going on at Dodger Stadium, and she arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. 

She wanted to step in front of a bus.

Trendy, sleek, and exclusive, The Library was the kind of place that regularly recruited high-profile celebrity chefs, the type that wouldn’t cook with anything less than imported Moroccan sea-salt and authentic Indian saffron. It entertained Hollywood’s established movers n’ shakers and set the stage for new up n’ comers. It was pretentious as all hell. Unbearably smug. It was a place that could intimidate Satan. It was a place that could make your dreams come true. It was a sign that you were actually _making it_.

Swallowing hard, Trixie stared wide-eyed at the interior of the restaurant: the vaulted glass ceilings, the white linen tapestries, the dining room of veined marble and African Blackwood, accents of sterling silver and drooping ropes of red blossoms. Somewhere, an under-paid musician expertly plucked at the strings of a Japanese koto harp, filling the air with some exotic keening serenade. Like…holy fuck. Never before in all her twenty-five years had Trixie felt so out-of-place, so completely out of her element. Hell, only two years ago, her life consisted of dodging phone calls from the Department of Education and crumpled beer cans from bar-goers in the dingy cuts of Milwaukee.

At this point, she just had to bite the bullet. She had to roll with it. 

“Can I…assist you, Miss?” 

Clutching the edge of his podium, the maitre d’ stared down his nose at her, clearly judging her off-the-rack dress. Nonetheless, Trixie stepped forward, feigning confidence. (Fake it ‘till you make it and all that jazz.)

“Yes. I’m with the Von Shayd party.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Name?”

“Mattel,” she said, “Trixie.”

“Hmm. There’s a Tracey Mattel listed here. But…no… _Trixie_. Hmm.”

As all the blood drained from her face, he gave her a snide little smile. “Pardon me for a moment, Miss. I’m sure Mr. Von Shayd won’t mind being interrupted to clear up this little…miscommunication.”

Unfortunately, even when he returned, murmured a few hushed apologies, and insisted that he personally escort her to the table, Trixie couldn’t revel in the _Pretty Woman_ comeuppance of the whole thing. She felt herself shaking out of her skin—gross—or like she needed to diarrhea shit-herself—even grosser. It was some of the worst stage fright she’d ever experienced. Nearing the table, she flinched at an uproar of deep male laughter, the kind that Hollywood had conditioned her to associate with big money moguls who treated women more like ornaments than human beings.

At the table, she instantly recognized the showy neon street style of A$id, a graffiti artist that had achieved international acclaim for tagging every bare inch of Echo Park with politically-irreverent marijuana martians. Next to him: Saint Tino, a bald thin man dressed in earth tones, wearing a fugly homburg festooned with quail feathers. And he was completely enchanted with the young woman seated beside him, who looked like Snow White after she’d ditched Prince Charming for the thrill of the sex dungeon. 

“There she is,” Shayd chuffed, lifting a leathery gold-ringed hand, “Thought you’d gotten cold feet, sweetheart.”

The maitre d’ pulled out the empty chair next to him.

It was an odd scenario in which Karl Von Shayd looked like the friendliest dinner guest. He always reminded Trixie of a mid-level mobster with his penchant for jewelry and his villainous cleft chin. He was the kind of salt n’ pepper, middle-aged sleaze who would request a girl wash his Ferrari in a bikini before he considered her a potential client.

His arm stretched over the back of his wife’s chair. A beauty somewhere in her early thirties, the woman looked like a straight-up Siberian James Bond villainess: milky skin, long platinum hair, smoky sea-glass eyes, and cheekbones that could cut diamonds. Her lips were painted an arresting candle apple red, the color of the American Dream, cherry pies and California Corvettes.

As Trixie sat, Shayd made a few perfunctory introductions before returning to his conversation with A$id. No one at the table (particularly Miss _Violet_ Chachki) gave a shit about her except Shayd, whose sweaty hand now rested on Trixie’s thigh, and his trophy bride, Katya, whose big bright smile was much warmer than the woman’s appearance would suggest. Of course, in addition to everything else, her teeth were absolutely perfect. Like _of course_ they would be.

“You look like doll,” she husked, her accent thick. With an inviting smile, Katya rested her chin on her hand. “So much pink.”

From across the table, Violet turned away from Tino, adding her two cents. “Almost like a kid’s toy,” she simpered, “It’s…cute. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

Not one for being bullied, Trixie straightened her spine, squaring her shoulders. She shifted in her seat, successfully dislodging Shayd’s roaming hand. “Thanks. People tell me I’m memorable.”

Violet’s dark, hooded eyes lasered in on her—but Trixie wasn’t intimidated. She’d dealt with plenty of icy cunts in her day. “Oh, I bet they do.” And Trixie had the distinct feeling that Violet wanted to turn this into a pissing contest, for whatever reason. 

But Katya laughed, diffusing the tension as she flicked some of her water (or vodka, who knew) in Violet’s direction. “Shut up. I like it,” she said definitively, “You are very pretty.”

Trixie’s cheeks warmed. Which was so stupid. Why was she blushing? People told her she was pretty all the time; to be honest, before this moment, she’d thought the word had fully lost its magic. But Katya said it with such sincerity. It suddenly seemed new. It seemed realer than it ever had before. 

Maybe it was the accent. 

Rummaging in her clutch, Katya pulled out a cigarette. But instantly,  her husband plucked it out of her fingers, crushing in his palm. 

“I told you I don’t like that,” he said, his knuckles brushing along her neck, “Tastes awful.”

Katya’s smile suddenly lost all its warmth. “Yes, I remember,” she breathed, placing a hand on his thigh, kissing his cheek, “ _Kooshite govno ee oomeeite, zhopa_.” *

A$id laughed. “The fuck does that mean?”

“No clue,” he chuffed, squeezing Katya’s chin and giving it a fond shake. “But it sure is sexy as hell, isn’t it?”

After that, the trophy wife stayed quiet. 

As the dinner progressed, Trixie barely touched her garden salad, instead drinking the Bordeaux being filled and re-filled around the table. She spoke when she was spoken to, laughed when it was appropriate, cracked a witty comment where she could, and was especially keen whenever Shayd (or Violet) brought up music or Saboteur Records. Shayd told her: his first wife, Ginger, had been a country singer, the first and last he’d ever managed. Apparently, she lived in Florida now, getting nice and fat in Gatorland, drinking sweet tea and swatting mosquitos on a wrap-around porch with her new husband. He told her this while nose-deep in red wine, his hand returned to her thigh.

Whenever Violet commanded the table with talk of fashion or fetish culture or the combination of the two, Trixie instead concentrated on Katya. Playing with a dollar bill, the woman twisted and rolled it between her fingers until it began to take shape. When Katya’s eyes flicked upward, suddenly catching Trixie’s, she set her creation on the table. Trixie nearly choked on her wine. It was an origami stick-figure man sporting a massive jutting erection. Katya smirked.

“The artistry,” Trixie commended, her voice low as Shayd laughed at something across the table.

With a mischievous smile and a flash of her tongue, Katya placed a small paper hat on his head. “The elegance,” she intoned.

Trixie snorted, her cheeks flushing at the attention. At Katya’s bright private smile. At this small, warm moment that was all their own. What a rookie mistake: She’d had way, way too much wine and not nearly enough to eat. 

Her head swum a little. She felt overly warm. And unfortunately, just as she began making this realization of oh-God-I-am- _drunk_ , Shayd turned his oily gaze back on her. His hand slid upward on her thigh, his breath smelling of bloody filet. Her stomach turned.

“Excuse me,” she babbled, “I’m sorry. I need some air.”

She nearly ran to the restroom, bypassing the attendant and scurrying into one of the stalls. With a few deep breaths, she calmed her roiling stomach. She needed this quiet space to herself, in a restroom nicer than most people’s homes, with no one touching her, no one crowding her, no one whispering in her ear. Just a few minutes—ten minutes tops—and she’d be good to go, game face _on_ , fully  galvanized. This was Hollywood, she reminded herself, she’d have to make sacrifices for a couple hours of studio time. Sooner or later, she needed to learn the hard lessons. 

She could fucking _do this_. She just needed to get through tonight and not fuck it up. 

However, just as she resolved to leave, she heard the restroom door open. 

“Give us a few minutes,” Violet ordered the attendant. 

“Miss, I can’t—“

“Here, please,” the other gently insisted, a thick Russian accent twisting Trixie’s stomach, “For your trouble. We will not tell.”

After a brief hesitation, the attendant assented and the door creaked open. One of the two women locked it. As their stiletto heels clicked into the powder room, Trixie instinctively pulled her knees upward.

“Anyone in here?” Violet threatened.

“I do not see feet,” Katya murmured. Through the sliver of space between the stall door and the next cubicle, Trixie caught a flash of houndstooth as Katya tossed her clutch onto the counter and began admiring her figure in the mirror. Violet soon joined her. 

“I could swear I saw that Tracey bimbo come in here.”

“That is not her name,” Katya chided, fluffing the curls of her hair. 

“Who cares?” Violet laughed, preening alongside her companion, “She’s just another one of Karl’s casting couch travesties. She just doesn’t know it yet. It’s sad if you ask me.”

“Bitch,” Trixie mouthed, white hot anger flaring up her spine. She grit her teeth. She was two seconds away from barging out of this stall and…well, probably saying something that she’d fully regret in the long term. But she stilled when she heard Katya’s answering laugh. For some reason, it lanced right through her. Like a punch to the gut. Sure, she didn’t think they were gonna be best friends or whatever, but she did sorta like her. She seemed…kinda nice. 

With a permissive grin, Katya turned to the brunette. “You are…a vile…rotted little cunt.” 

Violet threw her head back. “Fine. Whatever. I’m a bitch,” she crowed, “Doesn’t mater. People validate my other qualities.”

“I like her.”

“You like _me,”_ Violet asserted, playing with Katya’s hair in such an affectionate way that Trixie almost mistook her for something other than a skinny, arrogant, reptilian she-devil. 

“ _Da._ You have beautiful waist,” Katya cooed, “But right now, Miss Chachki, all you do is _waste_ my time.”

Violet grinned. “Shut up.” 

And then she pressed her body against Katya’s. And crushed her lips against Katya’s. Trixie’s heart leapt into her throat, her pulse skyrocketing as the two women surged against each other. Holy shit, she did not expect this. She did not expect any of this: red lips clinging and clashing, hands feverish and grasping, Violet’s little breathy pants, and Katya’s guttural laughter as she pinned Violet against the sinks. Though the shorter of the two, Katya quickly became the aggressor of the whole thing, her hands firm on the younger woman’s body, her kisses biting and demanding and wild. And it was something that Violet seemed to really, really enjoy if her whimpers were any indication. 

Later, Trixie would blame it on the alcohol. She would let those four glasses of wine take full responsibility for the way it turned her on, too. 

“Fuck, Katya,” Violet breathed, her hands diving into the woman’s long hair, wrenching the blonde even closer, “I’ve been thinking about this all day.” In between kisses, she added, “You were such a bitch at dinner. Completely ignoring me. Like that’s possible.”

Despite Violet’s desperate grip, Katya pulled away from her. “Oh? Would you like to talk about it, Violet? Right now, yes?”

Her slender hand wove down Violet’s bodice, lingering at the hem of her little black dress. The brunette scowled. Her dark eyes shot a death glare at the blonde, who only laughed and leaned in close. “No? Then, _davay potrahaemsya_.“ **

“What the hell does that mean?”

Katya’s hand slipped between Violet’s legs and the younger woman gasped, her head falling forward, her thin hands scrabbling at the curve of the blonde’s hip. 

“That,” the Russian said with relish, “It means _that_.”

Trixie could barely breathe, watching this shit go down through a thin slice of space. She covered her mouth with her hand, hoping they wouldn’t hear her as Katya’s hand clapped over Violet’s mouth, muffling the brunette’s moans as she worked her hand between her thighs and bit at the stretched line of the young woman’s neck. Trixie tried to look away. She really shouldn’t be watching this. She really shouldn’t be _enjoying_ this. She shouldn’t feel that blossoming, heavy warmth pulsing between her legs, demanding her to touch herself…just a little, just to take the edge off. Trixie had to close her eyes. She tried to block out Violet’s mewling. She tried to ignore Katya as she babbled at her lover in Russian, her smokey voice stringing together nonsensical words that must be _filthy_. Had to be, right? Trixie imagined they were absolutely obscene. 

She bit her lip to keep quiet, to still her mind, her teeth digging in until she _finally_ heard the two women separate. It felt like forever. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes as Violet regained her footing. Languidly, the brunette fixed herself in the mirror, shimmying down her skirt, adjusting her pert little breasts. Then, almost in after-thought, she grabbed Katya’s arm. 

“Wait,” she said, her voice dreamy, edges worn down and rounded off, “What about you?”

“Later,” Katya said, tucking a curl of Violet’s raven hair, “You will owe me.”

Thankfully, Violet left the restroom first; and patiently, Trixie waited for Katya to follow her out, so that she could finally breathe. 

But Katya did not leave. She took her good sweet time, twirling white-blonde curls of hair, staring at her perfect teeth, re-applying her deep red lipstick. 

“You can come out now,” she husked. 

Wait. What.

Trixie’s stomach plummeted. She panicked. She even questioned whether it’d been an auditory hallucination or if some other girl had also been an unwitting audience member. She practically prayed for it. 

Then, she caught Katya’s eyes in the mirror. 

The jig was up. Officially.

Trixie lowered her feet to the ground, her heels sounding like chattering little teeth. As the stall door creaked open, Trixie slunk out like she was attending her own execution–all watery-kneed and red-faced. This was bad. 

This was so, so fucking bad. 

Hip cocked, Katya just lit a cigarette, blowing out a thin tendril of smoke. 

“Don’t they have a sprinkler system in here?”

_Good one, Trixie_. _Good way to smooth this all out._ _Nice_. 

Katya took another drag and then smiled, flinging the cigarette into the sink bowl. 

Was she really going to make her talk first? 

Trixie tried to cool off. Tried to be cool. Be calm. Be cool. Be collected. Instead, she blurted out, all accusatory and red-faced: “Did you know I was in there the whole time?" 

"No,” she responded, completely nonplussed, “You see, I do not like to be left…um…uh….” She waved her hands around as she searched for the expression, “Um…what is it…high and dry? Yes? But then I see you perched on toilet like little pink gargoyle….” Curling her hands into claws, she hunched her shoulders forward in a very unflattering representation of Trixie’s accidental role as a Peeping Tom. “And I decide to give you quick death instead.”

Trixie had absolutely no idea how to respond to this. Was she angry? Humiliated? Relieved? Maybe all three? She did not expect this reaction. She did not expect any of this. She certainly did not expect…Katya.

“Okay,” she said, unsure how to say anything else. 

“Are you going to tattle on me,” Katya cooed, coquettish and sly, like she’d been caught stealing from a cookie jar rather than fully finger-fucking her husband’s primetime electronica diva in a women’s restroom. 

“You? Don’t you mean…us? Like, you _and_ Discount Dominatrix?”

“Violet makes the money for my husband,” Katya explained, still so amused, “I spend it all on hats and knives. Who do you think he will blame?”

She waited for an answer.

“No,” Trixie said, “No, right, of course not. Not a word. Consider it fully scrubbed from my memory.”

(Truthfully, that memory was going nowhere and they both knew it.)

“Good,” Katya said, collecting her clutch, “And Trixie? Do not listen to Violet. She is young. She is…visionary. But she has been told ‘no’ enough times in her life that she has become like…she has become…” She twirled her bag, worrying at her bottom lip as she searched for a word, “…calcified? Yes? Calcified.”

Trixie lifted an eyebrow. The woman could barely manage indefinite articles but she could summon up a word like ' _calcified_?‘ 

“You know they have soap for that,” Trixie deadpanned.

At Katya’s blunt cackle, Trixie felt more at ease, almost like she’d accomplished something, even though the Russian woman seemed to laugh at everything and anything. Still, it felt like… _something_. Something good.

Katya moved to leave, hesitating at Trixie’s shoulder. “Speaking of soap? Do not forget to wash your hands, you dirty-dirty girl,” she teased.

Trixie let out a nervous laugh. “Well, I’ll bet yours are dirtier.”

Katya’s smile was slow and devilish and Trixie almost ( _almost_ ) regretted saying anything at all. “I’m like cat,” she purred, sticking two of her fingers ( _the_ fingers) between her cherry-red lips and then pulling them out, slow and slick, “I lick myself clean.”

When she left, and the bewildered attendant came waltzing back in, Trixie just stood there, dumbfounded and dumbstruck, wobbly-kneed and blushing.

“Jesus Christ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Eat shit and die, asshole.
> 
> ** Let's fuck.


	2. floating in an ocean i can't explore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "High Tide" - Brothertiger}

Trixie planned on taking her little secret to the grave. She promised she would keep it under lock and key. She’d forget about it. She’d wipe it. Nobody needed to know. She didn’t need to keep replaying it over and over in her mind.  But she did. And that valiant resolution to guard this scandal as tight as a nun’s snatch? Well, that lasted two days. 

Two whole days. 

“Like… _full-on_ finger-blasting in the ladies’ room, Pearl.”

Reaching for the offered joint, Pearl’s smile grew. “No way.”

Melted on her bed, her mind properly fuzzed, Trixie sighed. She flopped her arm over her face, waving at the plumes of earthy smoke stinking up her bedroom.  "I’m not joking, bitch,” she coughed.

With her knuckles, Pearl knocked at Trixie’s bent knee, fascinated with the limb as it teetered to and fro. “So, was it hot?”

Trixie shot up, throwing her pink duvet around her shoulders, her messy bun flopping to the side. “Jesus, Pearl. What kind of…what do _you_ think? Of course it was hot. That’s not the issue at hand here!”

“Oh my God, you’re totally blushing,” Pearl snickered, pulling that ugly toad face as she folded her arms over Trixie’s knees, “Oh, you slut, you’ve already used it for your little pink pocket rocket, huh?”

Guilty, and before she could stop herself, Trixie glanced at her bedside drawer. Pearl reared back. Laughing her skinny ass off, Pearl weeble-wobbled on the mattess.

“No,” Trixie blustered, “That’s completely, totally…That’s like…You know what, Pearl? You can go jump off a ditch…I mean, _bridge_ …Ugh. You can go fucking die. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

So, maybe Pearl was right. So, maybe she’d driven home drunk that night, shucked off her dress, and burrowed under the mattress—still buzzing, still afraid, still keyed-up and all alone in the dark. And maybe she’d kept replaying the whole scene in her mind, her hands restless over her bare stomach and tickling the tops of her thighs. So what? It’d been a long time since she’d had someone between her legs. Like, way too long. So, she’d thought about it, shoved her hand down her soaked panties, whining and whimpering as she rubbed herself fast and firm. Thinking of Katya’s red, red lips. Her glistening slender fingers. Her husking whispers. The way she’d smiled, victorious and primal and bright, as she fucked Violet into a whimpering helpless thing that was desperate for her: clutching Katya’s hair, grabbing her hips, pawing her breasts.

So, maybe Trixie had fumbled for her bedside drawer, swept her cute bunny-eared vibrator beneath the duvet, turned herself over, and bore down _hard_. So, maybe she’d copy-pasted herself into Violet’s place, letting all those thoughts (all those sensations) bloom and erupt and sweep through her body until her breath became shallow and hot against her sheets. So what. Everyone masturbated. Everyone had fantasies. 

The real reason she was smoking pot with DJ Vladonna on a sunny Tuesday afternoon was: She shared a secret with Katya now. A damaging secret. A big, explosive secret that could sink her career before it left port. With one seductive whisper into her husband’s ear, Katya could nuke all of Trixie’s hopes and dreams. Not that she would. But she _could_. And that scared the ever-loving piss out of Trixie, who’d worked way too long and way too hard for someone else to fuck this up for her. 

“When are you seeing Shayd again?” 

Trixie startled. “Um…a couple days? He invited me to his house. He has a private studio. We’re gonna meet up with a producer from Saboteur and go over my demo, maybe lay something down?” She chewed at her lip. “Oh, yeah, and he told me I should bring my bikini. Because, apparently, they have a salt-water pool, it’s gonna be a _hot one_ , and I might want to _take a dip_.”

Pearl grimaced. “Ew.”

“I know.”

What was it that Violet called her? A bimbo? A casting couch travesty? Trixie felt slimy every time she talked to the man. She couldn’t ignore Von Shayd’s sleazy reputation, not when that leather-faced lech kept reinforcing it at every single turn. (She wasn’t even fazed by the subtle-but-totally-not-subtle bikini request.)

Pearl stretched along the foot of Trixie’s bed, trailing her finger through a drifting stream of incense. “No wonder his wife’s stepping out with a model.”

“First of all, I never said Violet was a model. I said she was skinny and I said she was a bitch.”

“Ok, so…a model.”

Trixie waved a pink-nailed hand. 

“Like, ugh, Trixie, can you imagine being that Katya chick though…and like, having to _actually_ bang him?”

That caught Trixie off-guard. For some reason, unconscious or no, she’d completely avoided confronting the sexual implications of the whole scenario. Just the thought made her a little queasy: Von Shayd laying pipe in the far reaches of Katya’s Siberian tundra. No, no, no. No, thank you.

“Maybe…maybe it’s one of those Anna Nicole situations, y’know?” Trixie suggested, grasping at straws, “Those old guys that can’t get it up anymore, they pay big money for beautiful women to like…strut around in Agent Provocateur and eat Richart bonbons and talk to them, stuff like that. Companionship.”

“Oh my God,” Pearl drawled, “Don’t be dumb. A guy doesn’t green-card a sexy Russian cyber-hoe to _not_ fuck her every chance he gets.” With her index finger, she mimicked a flagging boner. “That’s like… _the whole point_.”

Trixie shuddered, holding up her palm. “Just…it’s gross. Stop. I don’t want to think about that.”

“Whatever.”

But Trixie did think about it. She couldn’t help it. Long after Pearl floated away to get dolled up for a gig, Trixie lounged on her bed, plucking her guitar, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about it. Katya couldn’t be happy, could she? Sure, she was an American dream living in the Hollywood Hills: a beautiful blonde trophy wife with a sexy accent and a limitless supply of cash. But Trixie spent enough time with depressed, pill-popping housewives hiding existential crises beneath Botox injections and glasses of Chardonnay. She used to roll her eyes at it all. Now, she didn’t know.

Trixie strummed a few long, slow chords until a little embryo of a song began to take shape. 

“ _Stars are soaring_ …” Trixie sang, off-the cuff, “… _but I’m just touring…It’s so boring…Katya’s on my mind…._ ”

It wasn’t a bad little melody, actually. 

“ _I catch her fever…around my disbelievers…In a world of marionettes, that keeps me alright…._ ”

It wasn’t bad at all.

Trixie grabbed her songbook, jotting it down. She stuck the pink puffball pen behind her ear and revisited the strings of her Gibson. 

#

Driving through the 90210, Trixie stared slack-jawed over the steering wheel at the extravagant multi-million dollar homes hidden behind exquisite hedges and perfect skyward palms. (She’d never been to Pearl’s childhood palace. Their respective branches of the family tree only ever interacted at weddings and funerals.) 

Following directions off her cracked iPhone, Trixie pulled up to the gate that separated the Von Shayd family from the rest of the world. She pressed the buzzer. Waited. Then, she pressed it again.

Finally, an annoyed female voice crackled out of the speaker: “Oh my God, who is it?”

“Uh, hi. This is Trixie Mattel. I’m supposed to meet with—”

“Oh, you’re a new singer, right?”

“I am. Yeah.”

“Okay, okay, alright. Hold on.”

The gate rattled open and Trixie pulled into a roundabout already occupied by a Benz and a BMW. Her car creaked to a stop. Walking to the front door of this Beverly Hills mansion, in her flirty pink dress and her guitar case, she felt like an ill-advised Barbie-Girl rendition of Maria von Trapp from _The Sound of Music_.

Swinging open the front door, a teenage brunette with big eyes, big lips, and an over-fondness for statement jewelry blabbed into her cell. Frantically, she waved Trixie inside.

She wasn’t no amateur. Trixie had done her research with an hour or two of harmless Instagram snooping, recognizing the girl as Alyssa, Karl’s eldest daughter. But Alyssa’s numerous glamour selfies and professional dance stills couldn’t have prepared Trixie for the force of her loud, manic energy and the odd Southern twang that West Coast living still hadn’t ironed out.

“Ganja, girl, if you think I’m gonna let a beast like _Coco Montrese_ snatch my Homecoming crown, you’ve got another thing comin’, mama,” Alyssa squawked into her phone, “Trust the Duchess, baby, I’ve got a secret weapon.”

Alyssa flipped her hair over her shoulder and used her entire weight to shut the door behind Trixie.

Inside, the grand Von Shayd mansion was so over-dramatic and opulent that it bordered on tacky: chandeliers, spiral staircases, a sea of white furniture accented by extravagant houseplants, gaudy statuettes, “tasteful” nudes and gold accents wherever applicable. Trixie wasn’t surprised.

Alyssa waved her arm again, motioning for Trixie to follow.

“That gila monster said what?” Alyssa screeched, halting for a minute, “… _backrolls_?! Ooh, bitch. I swear….”

Alyssa lead her into the kitchen. At the island counter, Trixie recognized Karl’s younger daughter, Phiona. Sporting a bright blue bob and modeling a Pikachu crop-top, the sixteen-year-old pursed her lips, posing for her phone.

“Girl, hold up, I’ll call you back,” Alyssa said, before she snapped her fingers in front of her younger sister’s face, “Phi Phi, where’s daddy at?”

Phi Phi rolled her eyes. “Ugh. How should I know? Go ask _Yekaterina_.”

Trixie’s stomach dropped. She’d hoped not to run into her again. Or like _ever_ , if possible. As long as she kept her distance from Katya, and from the whole mess that had occurred at The Library, she’d convinced herself that she could navigate this whole rise-to-stardom with relative ease. Which was stupid. But…baby steps. 

Alyssa cocked her hip. “Isn’t she at hot yoga?”

If Trixie could restrain her wildly creative imagination from conjuring up images of Katya curving into downward dog in skimpy skin-tight sports-wear, she totally would. But, y’know, she was an artist. She couldn’t help it if she tried.

“She doesn’t go on Fridays,” Phi Phi replied, texting, “Is it too much to hope that she’s packing her all garbage to go back to Mother Russia where she belongs?”

Rolling her eyes, Alyssa flounced over to the intercom system, yelling for ‘Miss Kah-tee-ya’ and receiving no response after several attempts.

Peering up from her phone, as if she’d just noticed Trixie, Phi Phi looked her up-and-down. “Who’re you supposed to be? Stripper Strawberry Shortcake?”

Trixie’s eyebrow lifted. It was real cute coming from a girl who looked like Ash Ketchum’s busted side-piece but….

“You’re a beast,” Alyssa said, “C’mon Tallulah, I know where she might be.”

She lead her outdoors. Poolside, it was just as gaudy and overwrought as the interior but, God, Trixie would still give her left tit to live in a place like this. When she was a kid, hiding in her room, clutching her scuffed-up dolls, Trixie dreamt of living in a place like this: a true Malibu Barbie dream-house. In the middle of the still sparkling waters, Katya lounged on a wide inflatable in a black bikini, her face hidden beneath a sunhat, a book in one hand, a fan in the other. She looked like a movie star, supremely decadent in all respects.

“Katya, baby!” Alyssa screamed, waving her arms, “Talia Martel is here and I don’t know where daddy’s at!”

Katya looked up. Trixie was not proud of it, but her mouth went a little dry. However, all of Katya’s movie-star grace instantly evaporated. Her legs flapped a little and she reached out.

“Alyssa! Can you—”

The teenager’s phone rang. “Sorry, Katya, I gotta take this,” Alyssa said, waltzing away, “Can you help her or something? Oh! Hey, Shangela! I’m glad you called, bitch. I’ve gotta-”

Trixie set down her guitar case. Helplessly, Katya flapped her arms, motioning toward the hedges.

“Oh! Can you—? Can you get the net? The, uh, the pole? Over there?”

Despite herself, Trixie grabbed the skimmer lying in the over-manicured lawn.

“There a few dead flies or something?” 

She was gonna be a little snippy if this woman thought she was gonna do her pool boy’s grunt work. 

“No, no, no. I-” She waved her arms again, looking…kind of helpless? A far cry from the quirky sex pistol sucking her fingers in The Library restroom. “I need you to hold it out for me and pull me in. I like to float on the pool of abundance. I do not like to get wet with it.”

Trixie extended the net to her and reeled her in.

“Guess that explains the smell, huh?”

Laughing, Katya handed her the collapsed fan and then her book before reaching out with her hand. As soon as the woman got both feet on solid ground, she pecked Trixie on the cheek.

“Oh,” she sighed, flinging off her big hat, “ _Spasibo!”_

In an effort _not_ to look too closely at her, and all that body, Trixie instead inspected the book in her hands: _A Brief History of Time_ by Stephen Hawking. 

“Wow. A little…light reading?”

Katya pulled the book to her chest. “I love science,” she replied, a plush smile flitting across her face, “You tell me now. What are you doing here, Talia Martel?”

Reflexively, Trixie opened her mouth to correct her. (Because, apparently, no one could remember her goddamn name.) But then she saw the little twinkle in the other woman’s eye: She was teasing her. 

She remembered her.

“Your husband. He asked me to come. I guess I’ve been stood up?”

Katya sauntered over to her lawn chair, flipping a towel to find her phone, tapping at the screen. It didn’t take long until her husband answered. 

“Hello, Karl,” Katya purred into the phone, all sweet and soft and totally fake, “You forgot something. No, no not that, _kozyol_.” With her phone tucked into her shoulder, she sat on the chair, inviting Trixie to the one beside her. 

“Trixie Mattel is here to see you,” she told him, lotioning up her legs, “Yes. Yes, it is. Yes. Yes, I will. Of course, _kozyol_.”  She exaggerated a kiss into the receiver and then promptly hung up, dropping the phone between her legs like it had the plague or something.

“They lost track of time playing racquetball,” she informed her, “He says he is sorry. He will be here as soon as he can.”

Trixie sunk into the seat. Great. He totally forgot all about her. Guess that said a lot about her career prospects with Saboteur. 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Trixie picked at a lose thread in her dress. A hand reached over, touching her thigh.

“It is okay,” Katya assured her, “He is always running late for everyone. For everything. Back in Russia, I waited hours for him. Sitting in front of my computer. In my underwear. It was…very, very annoying. And very, very cold.”

Her eyes were earnest and she sounded so sincere that despite all her natural cynicism, Trixie relaxed, releasing a long-held breath. 

“Do you want to swim?” Katya asked, plucking at the strings of her bikini, “I have many.”

“Uh, no,” Trixie laughed, “Me and bikinis, we don’t really mix.”

“Why not?”

Because she was all tits and hips and whenever she wore a bikini, she always drew a whole lot of attention. And she really didn’t want that attention when Karl arrived home.

“It’s just…I’m just….” Trixie gestured down her body.

“A lot to look at,” Katya finished, her smirk deepening.

Silence stretched between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Out of the corner of her eye, Trixie watched Katya lather up, bending her leg and extending it upward like it was no big deal. No big deal at all. 

She cleared her throat. “That thing you call him: _kozyol_? What’s that mean?”

“It means…uh…It means ‘goat’?”

“Is that…like…a term of endearment where you’re from?”

Katya smirked. “No.”

Trixie barked out in laughter, pulling Katya into it. 

“What are some?”

“Um,” Katya thought for a moment, “ _Katyonak…_ is ‘kitten.’  _Lapooshka_ …’sweetheart.’”

There was something wistful about the way she said it. Something far-off. Hesitant to ask, Trixie pulled her knees to her chest, kicking off her heels. “Did you have somebody special in Russia?”

Katya made a non-committal noise and then sighed. “There _was_ Dimitri,” she said, a smile breaking across her face, “Very dangerous. Very slick. _Sexy_. For my birthday, he bought me a gold-plated toaster oven. But he is in gulag now. He used geese to smuggle drugs to the Ukraine.”

Trixie tried not to laugh. “Wow.”

Katya moaned, curling her legs in and then letting them splay outward, “Oh, but Trixie, that man’s tongue! They could chop his cock right off. Right off! Right into tiny little bits for his babushka’s black mass _solyanka_ and it would not matter, I swear this to you.”

She turned over to face Trixie, curling up in her chair, grinning at her like they were at a middle-school sleepover, the only two awake, faces inches away, breathing secrets in the dark. Trixie had never been to one of those. Not really. Not like in the movies. She imagined Katya hadn’t either.

“That’s a really specific example. Got a lot of experience with penis broth?”

“Did you not know? In Russia, we love to chug cock.” At Trixie’s laughter, she rolled her eyes. “Ask any American man. He will tell you.”

Maybe it was the pool or the heat or the easy laughter, but for some reason, Trixie felt comfortable enough to ask it: the real burning question. The really impolite one. “Why’d you do it? How’d you get into all of that?”

 “ _It_? Pooching in front of camera?”

Trixie nodded.

“I wanted to make art. I ran away to the city. But everyone said my work is too…weird. Too this. Too that. Not good enough,” Katya said, her face falling for a moment, “I am a woman of grace and dignity but I needed to eat! And I happen to have…” She gave her a cheeky smile, fluffing her breasts. “Perfect tits.”

She really did. But Trixie just shrugged. “Well, I mean, you gotta use what you got,” she said, gesturing to Katya’s body, “When everything else is such a disaster.”

Katya belted out a laugh, flinging sun tan lotion her way. The oil would stain her dress. But Trixie didn’t really care.

“It was not bad being Internet whore,” the Russian reassured her, “I show them what they want to see. I talk how they want to talk. They believe what I let them believe. It is like…dress-up. Sometimes, they just like to watch me and Dimitri. That was fun. Then, this rich old American man wants to marry me and bring me to this country. Of course I say ‘yes.’ You can imagine my disappointment when I find he is _not_ impotent.”

Clearing her throat, Trixie nodded. “Sure. That’s…that’s definitely a bummer.”

She asked her not to feel any pity. Nobody liked to feel pitied. And nobody should pity someone living like Katya was living. Still, Trixie’s stomach knotted as she watched the Russian woman reapplying sunblock, fiddling with her bikini bottom.

“Can you show me it?”

Katya’s eyes shot up. “ _What_?”

“Art,” Trixie blustered, “Your _art_ , dummy. You still have it?”

“Oh. Um. Yes?”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Trixie didn’t bother with her heels. She didn’t have the chance. Katya grabbed her hand and whirled her away, back into the house. It was only then, trailing after her through the lavish mansion, that Trixie noticed her newfound friend was several inches shorter than her, that her honey roots were beginning to peek out of her platinum hair, and two dimples pronounced themselves on her lower back. Katya led her into a small office. It was cluttered with a bunch of weird out-of-place shit: stacks of tattered paperbacks, old chests overflowing with ugly dresses, a pack of tarot cards, a collection of letter openers, taxidermy…a whole lot of taxidermy. 

Katya toed through the chaos, rummaging around in a credenza until she found a messy portfolio. With a sweep of her arm, she cleared her desk and laid out her sketches. Her art was definitely odd: dark, sexual, grotesque…but there was something so absurd about her work. Something just so _off_. Trixie laughed before she could stop herself. 

Shit.

How fucking insensitive could she be?

“Oh, Katya, I’m—” But when she turned to apologize, expecting anger or devastation, she saw Katya beaming at her, her fingers steepled at her chin. Something about her was just incandescent—soft and warm and bright. 

“You laugh. No one ever laughed.”

Katya moved against her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Trixie chuckled, picking up a drawing, “They’re ridiculous. I think they’re really great.” She met her eyes. “I think you’re really good.”

Her smile could’ve made someone snow-blind. “You think so?”

A shiver of electricity rushed up and down her skin, as the space between them seemed to heat up and close-in fast. Katya’s eyes darted over her face, settling on her lips. Trixie inhaled, sharply. She knew what was coming and she wanted it. 

She really wanted it. 

“Can I kiss you?” Katya murmured, her voice thrilling every atom in Trixie’s body, “I want to kiss you.”

 _Yes,_ she wanted to say. _Yes, yes, yes. You can do whatever you want. Wherever you want._

She just nodded, inhaling deep, preparing herself for the onslaught. For everything she’d imagined and fantasized about. 

But she didn’t get what she expected; instead, she got everything she wanted. Her kisses clung to Trixie’s lips, soft and slow, dipping her into a dreamy hot haze. She totally surrendered to it. Craved more. Why was she reacting so strongly? Had it really been so long? 

Sighing against Katya’s mouth, her eyes fluttered closed, her fingers itching, trembling as they grazed the other woman’s bare hip. 

This shouldn’t be happening. She shouldn’t have let this happen. She shouldn’t be chasing Katya’s lips or the furl of her tongue, hoping she’d deepen it, wanting this strange woman to completely take her over.

“ _Ti takaya voskhititel’naya,”_ Katya murmured, smiling against her mouth. *

Despite herself, Trixie’s voice shook: “What’s that mean?”

Katya didn’t tell her. 

Instead, she nudged Trixie up against the antique desk and pressed herself close, nearly nude, soft and warm with California sunlight. Cradling her chin, Katya gave Trixie a small dizzying kiss at the corner of her mouth. 

"That,” she said.

It was like deja-vu. 

It rattled Trixie back to reality.

She pulled back, remembering Violet, remembering every detail of that lurid night in the restroom. Every line of whispered dialogue. She recognized this. It unsettled her. 

“No. Wait. What does that mean?” she demanded, resisting the impulse to surge back against her and forget about all of it. 

Katya looked bewildered, as if no one had ever called her out or ever pressed the issue. Her cheeks flushed. Bright red. 

“I said…It means….” She attempted a saucy smile. “It means I want to kaleidoscope my-”

“No, it doesn’t.” Trixie crossed her arms. “You’re lying.”

Was this what it felt like to be one Katya’s desperate perverts, eating up all her bullshit, who only saw what they wanted and heard what they wanted and got what they wanted because Katya never let them close enough to know any better? Was she just another notch on the bedpost? 

Katya fidgeted in her place. For the first time, she looked anxious. Out of her element. She refused to answer. Instead, she began returning her drawings to their folder. Her silence only managed to piss Trixie off. 

"Is this your M.O. or something? Do you always seduce your husband’s pet projects? Is it like…some kind of sport for you?”

Recoiling, Katya swallowed hard. She looked so shell-shocked and wounded and Trixie instantly regretted it. 

A familiar male voice echoed outside the room: “Yekaterina. You in there, scrumptious?”

“Yes.”

Her face was severe, even with Trixie’s bubblegum lipstick smudged across her lips. Trixie wiped at her own mouth, hoping to erase it all. Especially what she’d just said. She shouldn’t have said that. She shouldn’t have said any of it.

This was such a colossal mistake. 

Katya’s husband barreled through the doorway, his arms outstretched, his waxy face folded into a white Hollywood smile. “There you both are! Forgive me, Trixie, sweetheart. I’ve got Dr. Lucius from Saboteur waiting down in the den.”

The Russian left without a word, without a single glance backward. Trixie’s stomach twisted as Katya kissed Karl on the cheek and he gave her ass a firm squeeze. 

Then, she was gone. 

Von Shayd clapped his hands together. He invaded the space, flinging his arm around Trixie’s shoulders, shepherding her toward the door, “Honey, we’re gonna make some magic happen, let me tell you. We’re gonna make all your dreams come true.” 

Trixie wanted to cry. This was turning into a fucking nightmare. 

A giant, self-destructive, emotionally-draining nightmare of her own making. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * You are so heavenly.


	3. gimme the stuff that feels so pure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "Bitch" - Allie X}

Cross-legged and nestled in, Trixie sat in the center of her bed on an overcast Monday morning. Usually, the California sunshine illuminated the soft pink hues of her bedroom; but today, everything hung grey and limp.

Warm rain splattered against her window, exaggerating every painful beat of silence between the plucking of Trixie’s fingers along her guitar. She hated the rain. It always brought her back home to the wide bruised skies of Wisconsin, the chirping locusts in the plain, the dead grass scratching at her knees as she watched the white linens billowing on the line, little bloodstains turning brown with the wash. It wasn’t supposed to storm in La La Land.

“ _Deep trouble waits in her room, under the strawberry moon_ ,” she crooned, “ _Deep trouble…findin’ me soon, under a strawberry moon_ …Ugh. God.”

Chewing on the cap of her pen, Trixie stared at the notebook fluttering against her lacquered toenails. She shouldn’t have tried working on this song. Not on a shitty, depressing day like today. What was she thinking? On paper, the song looked like chaos–scratch-outs, big looping rearrangements, desperate attempts to replace Katya’s name with something more appropriate, something that might fit.

Kathy? No. ‘Kathy’ sounded like a middle-aged lush hoping to strike gold at the bingo hall.

Or, Katie? That could work. No. No, it wouldn’t. Way too basic. No other name felt right or sounded right or looked right on the page. It pissed her off.

She shouldn’t be wasting time on this song, period. It wasn’t going on the demo that she’d been tirelessly recording for the past couple weeks. It wouldn’t help her get past what had happened (or what hadn’t happened) between her and Katya. It wouldn’t erase how she’d lashed out at her. If anything, this was just an exercise in extreme masochism, like squeezing a broken nail just to feel the deep ache of it. Just to remember the lust that flashed through her abdomen, the scent of Katya’s coconut tanning oil, the eager press of her lips, and the Russian riddle that shivered down her fuse and fully _set her off_.

It scared her. Kissing Katya in her witch’s hut, she’d realized just how much she _liked_ her. It was such a classic lesbian cliche. Trixie barely knew Katya and here she was, all maudlin on a rainy day, writing an actual song about her. She entertained fantasies of a fairytale romance as much as the next girl. Love-at-first-sight. Happily ever after. She loved Hallmark cards and Disney movies and the idea that something could be perfect, that someone could be perfect for her. But getting the butterflies over her manager’s philandering wife was as far from that ideal as she could possibly get.

It didn’t help that while she recorded at Saboteur, she’d often run into Violet doing the very same. That Violet. Katya’s actual secret lover, Violet. Trixie liked a good old-fashioned professional rivalry. Next month, they were both slotted to perform in the Saboteur Showcase–a bona-fide star-maker, the glitzy golden Hollywood nebula of her dreams.

To endanger all that with love triangle melodramatics? That was _insane._

(And sure as hell, she wasn’t going to _share_. Best to bow out. For everyone involved.)

Tossing her guitar aside, Trixie massaged her eyes, smudging her makeup. She needed to apologize to Katya and then she needed to _let it go_. Best case scenario: Her feelings would fizzle, dissolve in the back of her mind, and Katya would evaporate into vague impression of a muse. Maybe she’d finally let Pearl set her up with somebody. Somebody harmless and normal and domestic. A girl who read Nicholas Sparks novels and waited all year for Pumpkin Spice Lattes. Somebody who wouldn’t take up so much space in her mind. She needed a _Katie_ , mild and sweet and cute. She didn’t need to be devastated. She didn’t need a kooky, blonde Russian hooker blowing up her nerve endings.

No, ma’am.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime soon.

#

Violet loved the rain.

The dark clouds shrouded the deep purples and reds of her boudoir; and as the rain pattered against Violet’s windowpane, she gasped against her Egyptian sheets. Stormy weather always brought her back home, to the cold mutable bustle of the East Coast; but right now, head down, ass up, her wrists knotted to the headboard, Katya’s slender fingers digging into her ass, Violet was exactly where she wanted to be.

While Katya’s hair tickled the inside of her thighs, her tongue worked a rough demanding magic against Violet’s cunt, ripping whines and whimpers from her throat. As her body quivered against the mattress, Violet felt a delicious friction between her instincts and her reflexes,  pulling her in opposite directions–her bound hands tried to pull her away from Katya’s relentless attention while her twitching hips pushed back against those rude red lips, begging for more.

“Oh my God, Katya,” she hissed, biting at her lower lip until she felt an intense jolt of pain, “F-fuck. You dumb whore.”

Katya’s rasping laughter rushed against her pussy, forcing another sigh out of Violet as her hips reared upward. Teasing her, Katya’s tongue twisted against her before tracing the seam between her thigh and ass. Her nails raked the valley of Violet’s spine, sending shivering shockwaves all through her body, pebbling her nipples against the sheets.

“ _Izbalovannyy rebenok_ ,” the Russian woman chuckled, grabbing at the brunette’s ass, “You are a spoiled brat. I should not put up with you.”

Hiding her smile in the crook of her shoulder, Violet scoffed.

“Wow. You gonna tell me that a bad girl needs a good spanking, now?” Violet goaded her, “I expected better, honestly. Aren’t you supposed to be a professional?”

She wiggled her hips, hoping to entice her into doing just that; but instead, Katya slid up Violet’s back. Her lush breasts pillowed against Violet’s spine. Her breath puffed along the nape of the brunette’s neck and the girl couldn’t help but shiver at every soft exhale.

Violet gasped at the sting of Katya’s teeth as she sucked at her skin, the hard delicious thrust of her fingers inside her, wrenching another cry from the brunette. She squirmed, worked against her, straining to look over her shoulder and maybe catch her lips. Panting, she watched the rhythm of Katya’s arm and locked eyes with her as the woman left a nice flowering bruise against her neck. Trapped under her body, nipped by her perfect teeth, Violet broke apart against Katya’s aggressive fingers, her muscles burning as she pulled against the restraints, her limbs twitching with pleasure, her voice hoarse. When Katya made her cum, it was like a pulse of ecstatic calming heat that leapt all throughout her body.

She lived for it. Despite herself, and despite everything she had ever told Katya about the nature of their relationship, Violet thought about fucking her all the time. All the time. It was borderline pathetic. Katya was just a hobby. She was a past-time love affair, an afternoon delight in her Santa Monica apartment. Nothing else. But she liked to fixate on it. She liked to think about it. She couldn’t help it.

Breathless,Violet tugged at the ribbons knotting her to the headboard. “Untie these and kiss me, you idiot.”

Katya drummed her sticky fingers against Violet’s shoulder. She nuzzled in close to her ear. “Only if you say the magic word, _mishka_.”

Violet knew the drill. Of course she did. But still, she didn’t want to make it easy for her. They never made it easy. That just wasn’t as fun.

“Oh my God, Katya. Just let me go so I can fuck you.”

She shook her head. “You know I am a sleazy love witch crippled by an intolerance for over-ripe drupes, 100% polyester, and incivility in the bedroom. I _need_ you to say it, Violet.”

She kissed the sharp angle of Violet’s shoulder blade.

“Fuck’s sake,” Violet whined, making a show of trying to shake her off, “This is so stupid. If you laugh at me again, I swear…I will never go down on you ever again.”

“I am waiting,” she sing-songed.

“Fine. Poz…” Violet stammered, trying to wrap her mind around the correct syllables, “P-…p- _pozhaluista_?”

Every time, she got better at the pronunciation; but every time, she became more and more restless, more and more eager to be let go and to turn the tables on her Russian lover. With every encounter, Violet wanted to get her off faster and harder than the time before. Than anyone ever had. Than anyone ever would. So far, she’d been rather successful.

With the release of her arms, Violet felt relief rushing through her strained tendons, a luscious ache only amplified by Katya’s sudden kiss. It electrified her. Deepening the kiss, Violet flipped them. Landing on the mattress, Katya’s breasts bounced on her chest, her bright smile hidden behind tangles of long blonde hair. And though Violet wished she could chalk it up to bad sushi, her stomach fluttered a little as she stared down at her.

Violet never expected _this_ to turn to into a regular thing. She never expected it to turn into anything.

A year ago, on a cool June evening at a Malibu bungalow, Violet fell met for drinks with that old oily suit that she now called her manager. As a professional burlesque dancer, she’d known how to play with someone like Karl Von Shayd. She knew the board, where to move the pieces, and how to be the queen.

Expecting to find him alone, she’d been shocked when he introduced her to his batshit Russian bride. It had required an entirely new, but not wholly different, strategy for the evening.

Under the rustling of dark palm trees, Violet had played the ingenue and sold her ambition over chilled glasses of white wine. She’d flaunted. She’d flirted. She’d focused in on Katya, teasing her and touching her, knowing that the drunk old man would try to pop twelve Viagras for the all the threesome hints that she’d flung his way.

Instead, the night ended with Von Shayd passed out on a beach chair while Violet watched his wife smoke a cigarette, humming off-key toward the stars, as she circled the steaming hot tub with perfect balanced steps. Not a care in the world. Not in the least surprised by Violet’s scheming.

In fact, Violet remembered her expressing some kind of admiration for it. Back then, she was so fresh-off-the-boat, wide-eyed and nervous and raw. She was as chaotic as Violet was composed; and opposites attracted, didn’t they? So, while her new husband snored outside, they had ended up getting hot and heavy in the master upstairs.

And Von Shayd had never caught on to it. 

The girl turned her nails into Katya’s skin, raking them down her ribs and over her taut stomach. She lapped at the pearls of sweat beading the curve of her breast and nipped at its rosy peak.

“All this fucking sweat,” she sneered, despite wanting to kiss all the pale dewy skin she could see, “You’re such a slut pig. How the hell did you ever trick me into having sex with you?”

On any other day, Katya would cackle and knock her around with her legs, maybe push her head downward and order her to get to work. And Violet would. Gladly. Intensely. That was what they did. But today, for some reason, Katya didn’t laugh.

Her smile melted off her face. She looked away, staring into space, gnawing on the crown of her thumb.

Was it something she said? Violet wouldn’t apologize. She never apologized, for anything or to anyone. Still, her stomach clenched. She never meant to insult her. Not really. Katya knew that.

The blonde sat up, hiding behind a sheath of hair.

Violet rested on her heels. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Can I tell you something, Violet?” Katya asked, her eyes wide, as if she’d just committed an axe-murder and needed to hide the body _right-fucking-now_.

She threw her arms up. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

“I made a mistake. I think.”

“Okay. So?”

She pulled a face. “I kissed the Barbie girl.”

Violet felt every vertebrae in her body tense up in jealousy, a sick ball of unease turning in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t let Katya see it, of course. Instead, she feigned disinterest.

“Who?”

But she knew who.

Over the past two weeks, Violet had caught sight of that big blonde bubble-gum bimbo over at Saboteur. Toting her stupid pink guitar case. Recording her demo for next month’s showcase. She’d seen Von Shayd wrap his arm around her shoulders and gush over her work, the emotional depth of her voice, the “purity”of her schoolyard acoustic ballads. And now she had Katya (her Katya, thirty years old, vulgar and weird and uninhibited Katya) all bent out of shape over a fucking kiss? Dear God, finger the girl before you decide to have an existential crisis over it.

Violet crossed her arms. “What? She didn’t want it or something?”

Exasperated, Katya sighed, flailing her arms. “No. She did. She did. I _know_ she did. But then….” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. She thinks I tried to take advantage of her. Do you ever feel that way? Like I am using you?”

“Yeah,” Violet deadpanned, “I love it. I get off on it. We both do…?”

“It is not the same thing.”

Baffled, Violet tried to figure out when (and why) this had suddenly turned into a sad-sack sleepover therapy session. What was so heart-stopping about Trixie Mattel, anyway? And why did she feel so…thrown over, in every respect? Violet had decided long ago that if anyone was going to get bored of this, if anyone was going to break a heart, it was gonna be her. Not _Katya_.

And for fuck’s sakes, she still hadn’t made the other woman cum!

She huffed. “Forget about her, Katya. She’s just some Midwest farm-girl who popped her cherry riding a pony. She wouldn’t know how to touch you anyway.”

Through her fingers, Katya actually smirked at that. “Oh? And you think you do?”

Challenge accepted, the raven-haired girl pressed between Katya’s legs, running her hands down the woman’s long white thighs.

“Me?” Violet murmured, luring her lovers’ deep red lips, “You _know_ I do.”


	4. she can't keep quiet, all of the time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "Cherry" - Chromatics}

Violet’s burst of laughter alarmed the room like a gunshot. Immediately distinctive, turning heads, hitting straight to the gut. Like her conversation partner, she had the type of laugh that commanded attention, reminding everyone in attendance that she had just a little *more* than everyone else: more fun, more style, more sex.

As a model-beautiful waitress swept in front of her, Trixie snatched another flute of champagne. It went right down the hatch without a hint of a wince from Miss Maraschino, who couldn’t take her eyes off them: Violet and Katya tucked away in their own little corner of the reception hall, both ladies-in-red, making such a _striking_ pair.

This wasn’t how Trixie envisioned it going down: a polite ‘hello,’ a sincere apology, hopefully a mutual agreement to be friends (because for once in her life, she actually _meant_ that and _wanted_ that), and a welcome end to the weird infatuation gobbling up all of her artistic focus.

Ideally, she wanted to catch Katya alone; but Chachki refused to leave her side. All evening, she’d dragged Katya around by the hand as if they were naughty high-school girls. She twirled the ends of her hair, giggled at all the Russian’s non-sequiturs, shared catty commentary about the others in attendance. Not once had they looked in Trixie’s direction. And bitch, she hadn’t _moved_ –propped up against the bar, fielding a slew of over-friendly men, getting a little tipsy as she indulged in one bubbly drink after another, trying to figure out which was worse: the possibility that Katya had seen her and refused to acknowledge her or that Katya had been too enthralled with Violet to even notice.

Many things could be said of Trixie’s appearance–heart-stopping, cotton-candy, high femme Lolita being a few of her favorites–but subtle was not among them. No one could just _miss_ her in a crowd.

She shouldn’t be this distracted, mooning over someone she’d insulted, rejected, and had no possible future with. She shouldn’t be jealous of anyone right now: After hearing her finished demo, Mr. Charles _himself_ had invited her to this exclusive industry party at Chateau Visage. She should be over-the-moon, rubbing shoulders with all the big names on Sunset Boulevard. For fuck’s sakes, she’d already spotted all the original members of The Heathers and Rolaskatox milling around, acting cute and getting drunk with the Pit Crew, a name given to the collective of Saboteur’s brightest rap stars. She couldn’t miss out on this. She had to take initiative.

Teetering a little on her heels, Trixie wound her way through the rich and shameless, drinking and smoking and glittering under the low intimate lights, maximizing all the effect of the thick velvet upholstery and the polished cherry wood. As she approached the two women, Trixie exchanged her empty flute for another glass of bubbly. Not to drink, necessarily, but to hold in her hand for effect: Drinks and cigarettes put people at ease, satisfied the oral fixation, made any conversation seem cool, casual, and unbothered. _Flazeda_ , as Pearl would say. Hopefully, she’d find a way to channel some of Pearl’s trademark chill.

Violet saw her first. With a delicate sip of her cabernet, her heavy eyes flickered like stoked embers. She looked stunning, like a siren of the silver screen: sharp eyes, raven hair, a slinky red number that showed off her willowy limbs and waspish waist.

Tossing her platinum hair, Katya laughed at someone across the room. She wiggled her eyebrows, stuck out her tongue, dipped her glass, and polished off the clear liquid. She looked good, even wearing _that_ dress, and Trixie realized that only Katya could look stupid-beautiful in a chin-to-floor, skin-tight herringbone atrocity.

As Trixie closed the gap between them, Violet nudged the shorter blonde with her hip. With a playful grin, Katya nudged her back, completely oblivious.

Trixie swallowed the lump in her throat. “Hi.”

Violet swirled her wine. “Hey.”

God, this was more awkward than she’d anticipated. Katya seemed unaffected, though. Neither her welcoming eyes nor her beaming smile betrayed any hint of hurt at running into the younger blonde. Maybe she was just over it. No harm, no foul. Trixie should feel relieved at that, right?

Katya touched her arm, squeezing it gently. “When did you get here?”

“I saw her drinking over at the bar all night,” Violet mentioned, picking some imaginary lint off Katya’s sleeve, running her fingers down her arm, “Why didn’t you say ‘hello’ earlier, Trixie?”

Trixie shrugged. “Goes both ways.”

With an uneasy chuff of laughter, Katya gestured to herself. “Kind of like something else in the room.”

They both ignored her.

"That dress is so bold, Trixie,” Violet said, steamrolling ahead, “All you see on the runway these days are jewel tones, clean lines, muted shades. I love how you just… _don’t care_.”

“C'mon, didn’t you ever learn? It’s what’s _underneath_ that counts,” Trixie retorted, unshaken, “And when I take this off, the shower’s not the only thing gettin’ turned on.”

Grabbing her arm again, Katya giggled. (Well, as much as a thirty-year-old, husky-voiced, Siberian trophy wife could _giggle_. And fuck, Trixie glowed like a dumb little girl, swaying on her heels. She couldn’t help it.)

With nothing else to say, Violet stuck her nose in her glass of wine.

“Oh, Vi. That was _funny_ ,” Katya cooed, tilting her chin back at the brooding brunette. Sure enough, Violet’s lips twitched upward.

Feeling bolstered by Katya’s reactions so far, Trixie decided to just…get it over with: “Katya, can I actually…talk to you alone for a minute? I’ll get you a refill of…whatever that was.”

“It was water,” Violet supplied, “She doesn’t drink.”

“Oh.”

“Outside?” Katya suggested quickly, tipping her chin over Trixie’s shoulder, toward the terrace. With a cheeky smile, she mimed a cigarette with two fingers.

“Sure, great! Yeah. That’s fine.”

Disentangling herself from Violet, who tried to look as nonplussed as she could manage, Katya led Trixie to the double-doors. Both stepped out into the cool night air.

From up here, the world looked flipped upside down. The distant traffic lights twinkled like stars, the was sky hazy and indistinct, a Los Angeles twilight flossed with pink and orange, drawn out over hours like an exhale of sweet summer smoke.

A couple cuddled in the far end of the terrace, murmuring to each other, and the two women wandered to the railing ahead, overlooking the dark palms of the Hollywood Hills. Plopping her clutch down on the railing, Katya lit a cigarette. She looked expectant.

Guess this was showtime.

Trixie squared her shoulders, looking her in the eye. Not backing down. All her life, she’d prided herself on being brave, rising to the challenge, standing toe-to-toe with all the users and abusers that used to shadow her days. (As a teen, she didn’t practice with her make-up to look _pretty_. She used it to mask her bruises, the dark circles that worried her eyes. The more she had to do it, the better she got at it–and she got really, really good at it.) She could do _this._ She could do this no problem.

“Look, I wanted to apologize,” she breathed, “That day in your room and what I said. I just…I don’t do random hook-ups…and I got nervous and I thought about Violet and that time at The Library….”

Katya smirked at that.

“Shut up,” Trixie chuckled, all nerves, “When I thought about _that_ , I thought about my music and I fully freaked out. Because I really….”

She cut herself short, feeling her face flame as Katya stared at her, waiting patiently for her to finish.

“Because I really wanted you,” she blurted out, as if she were confessing to the Spanish Inquisition, something painful, something _humiliating_. “I wanted you. At that time. In that moment. On that day,” she blustered.

(Lying, lying, lying, she’d never lied _so much_. Because fact: She _still_ wanted her. She _still_ craved her attention, thought about her constantly, even wrote a stupid song about it.)

Katya just nodded, ashing off the ledge.

“As long as we are confessing,” she said, shrugging, “What I said to you in _russkiy yaz'ik_?”

Trixie nodded, astonished that she was actually going to get an answer for this one because she didn’t dare think to ask about it. She sorta expected it to remain one of her life’s big mysteries.

“I said you were heavenly,” Katya said, cringing, “It came out that way. I did not want to scare you off with _that_. So, I lied. Badly. Very badly.”

Heavenly.

Holy shit… _heavenly_?

She didn’t expect that. God, it was so corny (and so _much_ ) that Trixie almost wanted to make fun of her for it; and she totally would have if she weren’t trying to mask her dopey smile and the boneless lilt in her knees that had come upon hearing it.

“That’s not so horriblele,” she said instead, “I’ve heard worse.”

Katya lifted an eyebrow, stubbing her lipstick-stained cigarette on the ledge. “Oh?”

“Over at the bar, I got, 'Are you an elevator? Because I’d like to go down on you.”

“That is wrong… _on so many levels_.”

Clicking instantly, both of them erupted in stupid, over-excited laughter. It was so lame and yet, butterflies bloomed in Trixie’s stomach as the older blonde tilted her head back, gracing her with a big bright movie-star grin.

“Riddle me this,” she said, “How is it that you can’t handle English contractions but you live and die for _puns_?”

Katya looked like a kid caught in the cookie jar. She rested her forearms against the railing and leaned in. “People tell me it’s endearing. Didn’t you think so?”

Hiding her shock, Trixie floated her hand in the air. “Well, I mean…I guess you need all the help you can get.”

“Oh, please, Barbie,” she said, wiggling her ass, “I am a knockout.”

Before Trixie could respond, Katya nudged her shoulder. “You want to hear a good one?”

“A good _what_?”

“A line, Tracey! A good pick-up line. Keep up.”

Trixie laughed. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

“I told you about Dimitri, yes?”

Trixie nodded.

“Well, his partner-in-crime. Vadim Olegovich Kuznetsov. Big bald slab of man. Very stern. An ass carved from _granite_.” She snapped her fingers.

“Okay,” Trixie chuckled.

“Well, he whispered to me one night, _Yekaterina_ ….”

Red lips upturned, Katya drew so close that Trixie could feel the heat of her, enthralled in the deep notes of her expensive perfume. “ _Yekaterina_ ,” she murmured, her accent so harsh and low that it rumbled down each notch of Trixie’s spine, captivating her, “ _You are so selfish. You are going to have that body for the rest of your life; I just want it for one night_.”

Trixie couldn’t look away from her, from her mirthful eyes, smoked-out and longing. When they flicked toward Trixie’s lips, it suddenly dawned on her: Chateau Visage was a hotel.

All she had to do, all she ever had to do, was _give in_.

“Did it work?” Trixie croaked out.

She smirked. “Would it work on _you_?”

“Katya,” Violet’s voice sounded from behind them.

Trixie shot up. Completely sobered. Looking guilty as all hell. The lithe brunette, stone-faced and cradling a fresh glass of wine, lingered in the doorway. How long had she been there?

Katya turned around.

“Karl’s looking for you. Apparently, Mama Ginger’s being a real handful about Phiona’s new…” Violet rolled her eyes, air-quoting, “singing career.”

Katya sighed, her shoulders sinking. “Oh, well. Time to be the cool mom.”

With a small, sad smile, Katya left the railing, slid by Violet, and returned to the party. The brunette shut the doors behind her with a soft _snick_.

Trixie steeled herself.

“Listen, Violet, I really don’t want to start anything with you. And I know that you know that _I know_ about you and her,” she said, hoping to stub it out, not spent any more time with Violet than absolutely necessary, and head back inside for a strong drink, “I’m not gonna tattle.”

Violet’s hard, stunning stare didn’t let up. She took a sip, moving toward her like some kind of predatory cat. "Don’t fall in love with her,” she warned.

Trixie scoffed. “I barely _know_ her.”

As if it was ridiculous. As if she weren’t fully infatuated already. And Violet knew that it was all bluster. Even Trixie realized that she protested _far_ too much at this point.

“Bitch, like that matters,” Violet said with a joyless laugh, “Trust me. It’s an easy thing. And it happens for all the obvious reasons. But don’t do it.”

“Is that some kind of threat?” Trixie asked, because she genuinely couldn’t tell. Violet’s poker-face was as beautiful as it was bullet-proof, a stone-cold bitch painted to perfection.

“Advice, boo-boo,” she answered.

Violet took another drink, staring out over the hills, as the sun finally dipped deep into the horizon and darkness bled into the sky.

"You think she’d break my heart,” Trixie stated.

“No. I _know_ that she’d break your heart.”

“What do you care?”

“We’re musicians,” Violet said, finally looking at her, “A broken heart is good for business, bad for impulse control.”

“I already told you. I won’t say–”

“Oh my God, Trixie Mattel, _shut up_ , just shut up,” Violet snapped, tossing the rest of her wine over the railing, “You can’t promise me anything.”

“Jesus, talk _louder_ , Violet.”

Trixie swallowed hard, watching Violet’s long lashes quivering with the wind, her eyes watering. There was hurt there. Maybe. Or anger or resignation or regret. It was the first real glimpse of weakness she’d ever seen out of Violet.

“What do get out of it?” Trixie asked then, treading softly, “Besides….”

“What? The mind-melting, spine-bending sex can’t be enough?”

Trixie crossed her arms. “You know what I mean. There’s no future,” she rationalized, trying to convince herself as much as Violet, to save them both from more heartache, “There’s no hope for anything. There’s no….”

“Blueberry pancakes, Earl Grey tea and ugly cable-knit sweaters?” Violet mocked, shoving her sympathy back in her face, “Sticky toddlers or Christmas trees or homemade vegetarian chili?”

Trixie reared back, finally speechless. Finally, completely, _clocked_.

“Who _actually_ wants that?” Violet sneered, smelling the blood in the water.

Trixie did. Trixie wanted all of that. Truthfully, genuinely, shamelessly. And she had no idea why everyone around here treated commitment like it was some kind of sexual leprosy. In her wildest and most wonderful dreams, Trixie saw herself writing her music, making a home, living simply, sweetly, softly. What was wrong with romance?

However, now, with all her secret hopes ripped from her imagination, Violet had the blonde in her sights and they both knew it.

“I’m gonna level with you, boo,” the brunette said, her tears gone, “While you get fat on homemade cupcakes and write cutesy little jingles for pre-school plays, I’m gonna be in a five-star bungalow in Anguilla making Katya’s eyes cross, licking a trail of diamond tequila from between her tits. And y'know what? It’s gonna feel _great_.”

She placed a hand on Trixie’s shoulder, her nails digging in, her next words cutting deep:

“Get real, Trixie Mattel. You’re out of your depth. Hollywood isn’t the town for a girl like you.”


	5. i show my enemies the kind of loveless girl i can be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "Loveless" - Wild Ones}

“Baby, come on over. Use the pool whenever you want,” Karl had once told Violet, his arm snug around her waist, his thumb circling her hipbone, “Whatever you want, sweetheart. It’s yours.”

So, every once in awhile, Violet took him up on that offer. On this particular Tuesday, she chose a time when she knew the house would be empty. Karl was out of town for a few days and with school on summer break, Phiona and Alyssa had shacked-up with their friends at some glamorous coastal flophouse in Laguna Beach. And Violet knew that on Tuesdays, Katya actually went to her yoga class and then, depending on whatever needed the most maintenance, either her favorite psychic in Santa Monica or her favorite beautician in Glendale.

She’d have the house all to herself.

After that night at Chateau Visage, she’d be happy (overjoyed!) not to see Katya. All night, she’d looked at that country cunt like she’d hung the goddamn moon. Not like Trixie helped the situation, with her blushing cheeks and stupid jokes, glowing like a mythical little virgin at every small touch.

Two days later, that stupid Russian whore actually had the nerve to call her up and invite her shopping, like she hadn’t flirted with that bimbo right in front of her face. “No, Yekaterina,” she’d barked into her cell, “I don’t want to go to fucking Rodeo with you. I don’t care that he flushed all your cigarettes.”

“Wait, Vi. Are you mad at me? Why are you mad?”

“I’m not _mad_!”

And then she’d hung up on her, absolutely fuming, ignoring all her hyper-grammatical grandma texts. Later on, after she’d treated herself to a paraffin pedicure, Violet finally deigned to write her back:

 _[stop bieng so psycho imFINE]_  
[but u bettr not go without me bitch]  
[thats our thing]

{…}  
{…}

_{Of course not. Whenever you want to go. See you soon?}_

_[sur e whatever]_

And that was that.

Of course, she wanted to go shopping with her. That was one of their favorite things to do together. Violet loved playing with Katya’s weird wardrobe. Her closet was endlessly fascinating. Whenever they went out, the older woman always deferred to the brunette’s refined sartorial judgment, which Violet absolutely loved. And Katya always showered her with compliments, which she also absolutely loved. Sometimes, Violet even dressed solely with Katya in mind, dolling herself up for the blonde’s benefit. She never tired of hearing Katya say how beautiful she was; and Katya never seemed to tire of saying it.

But she was mad at her. She was mad at her and she didn’t want to see her. At all.

After pulling into the Von Shayd driveway, Violet rummaged for the spare key hidden in the peonies. Their cleaning woman, Mrs. Davis, was a gregarious lush who lost track of her keys as often as she lost track of Katya’s collection of Tiffany. Not that Katya particularly cared. She rarely wore anything that Karl gave her as a present and he rarely ever noticed. “Feh. Let her do it. He only gives me jewelry for the blowjobs,” she’d said one time, waving off the thievery, “But God help Kasha if she ever touches the Bvlgari snake.”

However, upon entering the house, Violet stopped short. She heard music. Her music: the chilly electronic melody of her prospective single, perfect for speeding on the midnight freeway or for a sexy number on a private pole.

Slipping off her shoes, Violet listened and traced the sound to the second level. Padding up the stairs, she mouthed the words, following her own siren call: _I wonder if there’s time for this–for plots and twists, for the bliss we missed. I wonder if there’s time enough, for talk that’s rough. I wonder if there’s time for us, to erase-restart._

The sound came from the East Wing, where Katya’s door stood ajar; and when Violet peeked inside, she tried not to smile.

Wreathed in chaos and facing an easel, Katya shimmied in her underwear, brandishing a stub of charcoal like a magic wand. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life but still, she sung along under her breath. She detailed a grotesque creature diddling itself on the canvas. Her hair was tangled, her make-up half-baked, and wayward fingerprints of charcoal grafittied her milky skin–the divot of her collarbones, the plump curve of her breast, the swell of her hip. She looked like a post-apocalyptic stripper ready to dick-down for a piece of expired candy. But Violet didn’t judge…much. Nothing hotter than a hot mess. And Katya was the messiest.

“ _Yob, govno,_ cunt, whore,” she muttered then, stamping her bare foot on the floor. Her hips stopped swaying, so Violet stopped staring. Katya surveyed the drawing with a critical eye.

Violet cleared her throat. “Screwed the pooch again, Yekaterina?”

Startled, Katya whipped around and then smiled at seeing her, lowering her defenses.

“No,” she sighed, “That was last week.”

“You’re disgusting,” Violet huffed, unable to keep herself from laughing as she tip-toed into Katya’s space, navigating through towers of dog-eared paperbacks and bootleg DVDs.

Katya pursed her lips and rolled her shoulder. Her bra strap slipped down her arm. “Mmm, say it again,” she teased, plopping down on a rickety stool. Violet perched herself on the edge of her desk, snapping one leg over the over.

“So, you like it,” she intoned, flourishing her hand with the music.

At that, Katya practically flew off the stool. “Oh, I love it! Violet…it is so _good_. So good.”

The blonde’s enthusiasm always caught her off-guard, threatening her image. Violet Chachki was a stone-cold fox. Violet Chachki was shorn latex, snapped garters, and a gorgeous death-stare. Violet Chachki was fresh off the runway, an intense wisp of a girl driven by the torrid baseline of her own pulse. But with Katya, Violet wanted to grin and nibble at her nails. She wanted to luxuriate in all the warm feelings that came with Katya’s approval. She didn’t know why she wanted it so much. She’d never needed validation from anyone. Especially not some trashy Russian hooker ten years her senior, who liked to bounce around in skimpy mismatched lingerie.

But here she was.

Karl and Dr. Lucius had praised her demo up and down–”it’s hot, baby,” “it’s a hit,” “you’re a star”–but none of it felt half as good as Katya’s simple praise, the impulsive movement of her hips.

The blonde pointed over her shoulder. “Are you here to see Karl? He….”

“I came for the pool.”

“Oh.”

Katya wouldn’t swim with her. She avoided water like an alleyway stray; it was the only thing she was really prissy about (“I am an earth sign, Violet. I do not _do_ water.”) but Violet was so charmed by it. And she still she sometimes indulged in the fantasy of being weightless and wet, shaded by fat banana leaves and serenaded by canaries, while Katya pressed her against slick mosaic tiles, kissing her hard, clutching her close, her nails digging into her ass, her drenched hair catching in Violet’s lips.

Then, she remembered: She was supposed to be mad at her.

“Where the hell is Karl going anyway? The showcase is next week.”

“Monte Rio. Something for the Bohemian Club. I think.”

Her eyes widened. “Bitch, wait. Isn’t that an Illuminati cult or something?”

Katya blew a raspberry. “Bleh, I _wish_. Listen, last year, when he came back from vacation? From Bohemian Grove? I did disgusting… _disgusting, revolting…_ things to that man to get him to tell me what they did there. Deg-ra-dation,” she ranted, clapping her hands. “But what did he tell me? It is just a gaggle of horny old men measuring their dicks and shitting in the woods.  No devil-worship or human sacrifice or blood orgies.” She pouted. “I was so disappointed. Just the thought of it made me so wet.”

Tipping her head back, Violet laughed. “That is so gross.”

Katya just shrugged. The loose strap slunk lower on her arm.

Violet had resolved to be mad. To stay mad. To be a petulant little bitch for as long as she could.

But fuck it, she wanted to be closer to her.

Violet slid off the desk, nudging at the blonde until Katya made room for her on the small stool. Their outer thighs pressed together, the naked skin was warm and tacky with summer sweat. Strands of Katya’s hair stuck to Violet’s lips as she breathed her in. She hooked her fingers beneath Katya’s strap and righted it, tugging it over her shoulder.

Katya didn’t react to her. She still stared at the drawing.

Something dark curled in Violet’s stomach, smoking her veins, catching in her throat. She wanted to say: “Look at me, instead.” Look at me and see how beautiful I am. Tell me you want me. Look for me. Send me a million texts and let me ignore them. Want me.

Katya didn’t.

Violet crossed her arms. “What the fuck is it supposed to be? And like… _why_?”

Katya flinched.

“A picture of _you_ , you rotted skunk,” she shot back, grabbing her with dirty charcoal fingers, pulling her into her lap. Violet held onto her, kissing her cheek before noticing all the black fingerprints on her sarong.

“Ugh,” she groused, pulling at the fabric, “So, is this how you do your make-up? Just…rub it all over your eyes and call it a day?”

Cackling, Katya stared up at her, jostling Violet with her thighs. “Oh, eat me, _sooka_.”

Throughout every struggle, every heartbreak, in her relatively young life, Violet always held onto one essential truth: In the end, she always got what she wanted. She followed her instincts. She made clean cuts and bold moves.

So, it didn’t come as any surprise when they ended up making out on the Von Shayds’ tacky marital bed, bodies twisted together, limbs sliding against each other. Katya’s long, slim fingers curled around Violet’s neck, holding her against her chest as she kissed her, long and breathy and deep.

Violet loved Katya’s long, indulgent tongue and her plush red lips. She loved the mewling noises that Katya made deep in her throat whenever they kissed. She loved how those seaglass eyes stared out at her from low, thick lashes–her cool eyes dark with heat. Katya slid her nails down Violet’s shivering body–tickling a nipple, circling her navel, slipping beneath her flimsy bikini, and rubbing her so slow and so hard that Violet’s hips jumped and trembled against every delicious slide of her fingers. God, even over the music, Violet could hear the delicious slurp of her own pussy. She only got hotter and wetter when the blonde husked some of that Russian glossolalia straight into her ear: “Violet… _Ya hotela tebya ves’ den.”*_

And whatever it was, whatever she said, Violet didn’t care; it always made her toes curl.

Grabbing a handful of Katya’s hair, Violet pulled her as close to her as she could. She craved every inch of contact. The heat of her sweat. The bend of her nose against Violet’s temple. Her teeth nipping the shell of her ear. She loved Katya’s full breasts heaving against her shoulder blades and the primal cant of her  hips against her ass. She loved the impish smile that flashed across the blonde’s face as Violet begged, “More. Please. Yes.”

She just felt so good. Tasted good. Sounded good. Looked so _fucking good_ that typically, Violet would stay a pillow princess for as long as the other woman would allow it. But, today, for whatever reason, the risky setting, the music spurring her on, Violet felt especially audacious.

“Katya…wait.”

Violet choked out, grabbing at the hand working magic between her legs, “Hold on.”

Sliding a leg up Violet’s thigh, Katya chuckled, “Why?”

The blonde gasped as Violet wrapped her lips around her glistening fingers, licking them clean. It bordered on unbearable–the exquisite, heavy thrum between her legs–but Violet still turned in Katya’s arms and grabbed the shorter woman’s hips. With a firm tug, she wrenched her down the bed until Katya’s head hit the mattress with a shocked “oomph.”

“Well, look at you,” she teased.

“Oh my God, shut up,” Violet breathed, trying to hide her smile as she peeled Katya’s legs open, “Just…lie back…and think of Mother Russia.”

Violet never anticipated how intoxicating it would be to see Katya beneath her, so soft and surrendering. Her hands tangled in the gaudy headboard, her teeth reddened her lower lip, her sharp cheekbones flushed with pink.

Trembling, Violet laved at her beautiful wet cunt, lavishing her with attention, watching her with dark eyes as Katya writhed and moaned. Panting against her, Violet was transfixed by the rise and fall of the blonde’s breasts, the rosy tips begging to be plucked and pawed. She the loved the way her pelvic bones rose beneath her skin as her hips rolled against Violet’s lips and tongue, her delicate fingers and the hard bridge of her nose.

“So good, _kotyonok_ ,” she purred, her voice catching, “You are so good.”

Whining, and unable to stand it anymore, Violet finally shoved her free hand between her own legs and the rush of pleasure made her want to babble all the nonsense swirling around her mind, all the things she never said to her, all the things she promised she would never say.

And it was bliss and it was good…until Violet heard it.

An unfamiliar tune.

And Trixie Mattel’s distinctive contralto.

Drifting above Katya’s moans, above her closed eyes and her arching spine, her lilting hips and her blushing pussy, Trixie sang her little song: _I’m turning with so many lies, Six in the evening, My senses are leaving, Katie’s got those strawberry eyes._

Naked and raw and hot, Violet’s anger rushed back at her with a white hot intensity. It pummeled her in the gut. She looked up and saw that Katya was close to cumming. Her head was turned away. Her eyes were closed. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her mouth yawned open. While one of her hands burrowed in her blonde hair, the other squeezed her tit. And Violet wondered if she liked this stupid song, if she saw someone different behind her eyelids, if she imagined someone else between her legs.

 _Katie keeps me up,_  
_Katie calls me up,_  
 _Katie drinks me up,_  
 _Katie won’t let up,_  
 _Please don’t let up_

Violet pulled away, waiting for something, contemplating her own sudden fury.

“What are you waiting for?” Katya whimpered then, nudging her ribs with her leg, “Make me cum.”

The brunette sat up on her knees and glared down at her. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. Until Katya stared up at her with confused, bleary eyes.

“Vi…?”

“No,” Violet said, blowing away tresses of raven hair, “I don’t think I will.”

Exasperated, Katya growled, flinging an arm over her head, as if scolding her for bad behavior.

Violet never demanded that Katya make rent, that she dance on a pole for the drooling pushers of Solntsevo or touch herself on camera for the benefit of lonely American men. She never held her green card over her head or flushed her goddamn Marlboros down the drain. Violet didn’t want anything from her.

She just wanted _everything_.

Her nails dug into into Katya’s knee.

Violet ran a hand down her own torso, furrowing it between her thighs, gasping at the furious shock of pleasure. She wanted to expose her throat to her. She wanted Katya to leave greedy love bites haloed with red lipstick. But Violet forced herself forward, writhing against her own fingers, staring down the barrel of the gun at her.  Katya’s breath quickened, her face lighting up for a game that Violet wasn’t playing.

Katya’s hand slipped down her body and over her hips. But just as her nails skated over her mound, eager to touch herself, Violet let go of Katya’s knee and smacked her hand away.

She tried again and again, Violet swatted her away. Harder this time. Faster this time.

With a strangled cry, Violet forced Katya to watch as her orgasm ripped through her like a Roman candle, rushing through her limbs. Short of breath, she collapsed over her, blanketed her, held Katya’s face,  ran her thumbs over her cheekbones and kissed her with everything she had. And when Katya tried to stroke her hair, calm her nerves, Violet held the blonde’s forearms against the mattress and kissed her even harder.

Katya looked downright dazed when the younger woman pulled back. Her eyes raced over her, searching for some kind of explanation.

“Violet?”

Without another word, Violet fled from the bed. She gathered the meager scraps of clothing she’d arrived in and slipped on her bikini bottoms.

Katya shook back her hair, propping herself up on her elbows. “ _Violet_.”

“You don’t want to lose me,” Violet said then, cold as she could be, finger-combing her hair in the vanity mirror, even as her eyes began to water. Her fingers shook as she tied up her top. Too proud to say what she really meant: Do you want to lose me?

“Why would I lose you?” Katya asked, genuinely baffled, and Violet just wanted to shake her by the shoulders and make her see it.

She refused to spell it out for her.

“Y’know what, Katya? If you sit here long enough, I’m _sure_ you’ll figure it out,” Violet said, swallowing hard, storming from the bedroom to the tune of Trixie Mattel’s “Strawberry Moon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “I’ve wanted you all day.”


	6. and when i walk away, you're in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "It Makes the Babies Want to Cry" - George Clanton}

Every pop princess had her Breakthrough Moment. Britney Barry had hers after the release of her pigtail-twirling, belly-dancing music video. Adore Delano had hers after she threw on an oversized flannel and stuck wilted daisies behind her ears. And Alaska had her meteoric rise to the top after the simultaneous dissolution of her multi-platinum girl group and her much-publicized relationship with metal maverick, Needles.

For the past few weeks, Trixie had convinced herself that the Saboteur Showcase would lead to her Moment. She allowed herself to imagine the flower crowns at Coachella, the cherry blossoms in Kyoto, the northern lights of Reykjavik. But now, at the dress rehearsal, Trixie felt her idealistic little dream melting in her hands like forgotten ice cream, cloyingly sweet, sticky on her skin. Quaint. Naive. Embarrassing.

In the wings, Trixie pretended to tune her guitar while Violet Chachki blocked her show-stopping extravaganza. She had backup dancers, an aerial performance, a costume change, and her own world-renowned hair and makeup artist flown in from Vienna, a woman who only went by the moniker “ _Fame_.”

She was Saboteur’s new superstar. She was the sure bet. They’d made it abundantly clear: Violet Chachki was the Next Big Thing.

Trixie would have been bitter if not for the sweet-sweet satisfaction of watching Violet’s rehearsal run about as smooth as a three-legged poodle with hip dysplasia.

In barely twenty minutes of stage time, Violet forgot her lyrics twice, fucked up mounting her hoop, hip-checked one dancer, and crushed the toes of another.

Unimpressed and visibly frustrated, one of the dancers finally tossed her long dark ponytail and said, “You’re gonna be the next Alaska? Really? Choices.”

That’s when Violet turned her murderous stare on her.

“Ladies! Alright, alright!” Alex Michel, the stage director, bounded onto the stage, defusing the situation with a few sharp claps of his hand. “Alright. Break it up. Frankly, ladies, I think everybody needs to cool off. Take five. Everyone take five!”

“Thank you,” the dancer simpered, before charging off with the others.

Violet snatched a water bottle from one of the stage-hands and turned upstage to stare up into the lights. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip.

Even Trixie could see it: Something was definitely off with her.

When the dancers returned, the rest of the act went well-ish given that Violet still hadn’t mastered all her moves by the end of the rehearsal. She powered through but the frustration of all those involved, including Chachki, blanketed the theatre like a static charge. (“Bad vibes,” Pearl would say, “bad fucking vibes.”)

Brushing off the stage director, Violet stormed off stage, her head low and her shoulders tight. Trixie reared back, so as not to catch her attention. The brunette ripped the mic off her head.

She barely made it backstage when Von Shayd trotted after her, hot on her heels and as stone-faced as Trixie had ever seen him.

“Violet,” he barked, his mustache quivering.

“I get it, Karl,” she snapped, waving him off, “I’ll have it on the night.”

“Oh, no, no, you don’t get to walk away from me, ” he growled, snatching her arm. Because Violet weighed next to nothing, he pulled her right back with little resistance.

They stood, facing each other, right in front of Trixie. Violet spared a brief glance at her, looking partly embarrassed but mostly pissed; and because Trixie’s mama raised her right, she immediately looked down at her phone, pretending to zone-out on Instagram or something while Karl dressed her down. Clearly, Von Shayd didn’t give a rat’s ass about Trixie being there.

“Don’t touch me, Karl,” Violet complained, rubbing her arm.

“Oh, I’ll touch whatever I want, sweetheart,” Karl seethed, plunging a thick finger in her face. To her credit, Violet didn’t even flinch.

“Do I need to get Katya to sort you out? She’s out there,” he said, “You know she’s out there.”

Shifting her weight, Violet’s lips parted. She blinked a few times. “Why…why would you need t–?”

“You girls think you’re so clever, don’t you? That woman,” he hissed, pointing back toward the stage, “doesn’t take a shit without me knowing about it. You think I don’t know where those lips have been?”

At this, Trixie’s head immediately shot up. Fuck her polite little fantasy. Her heart leapt straight into her throat and lodged itself there as she stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as Violet and Von Shayd stared each other down. He knew. He actually _knew_. And how much? And for how long? Despite their friction, or maybe because of it, Trixie felt a sharp pang of fear and sympathy for Violet, who looked truly and utterly rocked. Her eyes darted to Trixie.

Internally, Trixie panicked. If he knew about Violet and Katya, did he also know about her? But…like…what about her? Nothing happened, Trixie reasoned with herself. Nothing ever happened. You kissed her. Or _she_ kissed _you_. Once. One time. It was nothing.

It was nothing. They weren’t lovers. They were barely even friends. They weren’t anything. Right?

Finally, Violet spoke, keeping her voice low: “Karl….”

He waved his hand, dismissing her. “I don’t give a fuck that you’re scissoring my wife, Violet. Just…be a professional, be a star. Because trust me, baby, there’s plenty of girls that can and will take your place.”

Fanning his fingers, he gestured toward Trixie, who instinctively reared back.

Lifting her pointed little chin, Violet reinforced those steely nerves, refusing to look at the blonde. “No girl can replace me,” she insisted.

“Is that right?”

With a curt nod, Violet assured him: “I’ve got it what it takes, Karl.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve got it.” Even though her voice trembled this time, Chachki’s imperious bitch-face betrayed nothing.

“That’s the spirit,” Karl said, looking her over, “Good girl. Now, get.”

Trixie watched her go. She walked toward a backstage mirror, where she planted her hands and sheared off a handful of makeup wipes, rubbing at her face with emphatic force. When the cloth fell away, Violet’s eyes were pink and glassy. Trixie looked away.

“You familiar with _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ , sweetheart?” Karl asked, still staring in Violet’s direction. Out of his suit pocket, he retrieved a battered pack of Marlboros and lit one up.

Trixie hesitated, fixating on the flame guttering around the tip of the cigarette. Since tenth grade, she’d worn out the binding on Capote’s novella; and after every break-up, she’d moon over the Hepburn film with a pint of ice cream nestled in her lap. So,in the understatement of the year, Trixie answered: “Yeah. I’m…familiar.”

“ _Never love a wild thing_ ,” he said, “That’s what she says, right? Remember that?”

She nodded.

“There are people out there who won’t settle for any ol’ house-broken pussycat, darlin’.  They want something rare and dangerous: a gorgeous white Siberian tiger chained up with a heavy diamond collar, ripping into bloody cuts of meat. It’s a promise for disaster, innit? Because they always forget: you can give a tiger every ounce of human love, pretending you’ve tamed her, but a tiger is a tiger and always will be. The very thing that makes her so thrilling to love is the very thing that keeps her from loving you back. That’s just how it is.”

He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, twisting it into ash.

“I know my wife is a tiger. Wild. Hungry. Skittish. But it sure does make you feel special when she lets you close enough to stroke her fur,” he said.

Trixie grimaced. She wasn’t that naive; she understood Katya’s status was only a few steps removed from hired arm candy. It’s not like he’d wifed her for her _sense of humor_ or because of a shared admiration for Pushkin or the Bolshoi Ballet. But to hear him actually say it, so freely, without _any_ shame, that Katya was just a fun toy for his Mid-Life Crisis…Trixie couldn’t veil her disgust. She couldn’t bite her tongue.

“She’s a human being. Ever think you might be projecting onto her a little bit?”

“Maybe, honey,” he admitted, “But she’s used to it, int’ she? What’s the difference between a whore and a muse? Not a whole fuckin’ lot. A whore, at least, gets something for her time.”

Something that felt suspiciously like guilt coiled around Trixie’s lungs, crushing her slowly. With a pointed stare, Von Shayd leaned in so close that Trixie inhaled the ghost of tobacco and cognac lingering on his breath. She could see the expanse of his pupils, the jaded color of his eyes. “I’m not the one writing love songs about her, am I?”

Trixie’s throat constricted.

Deflect, dammit. Deflect. Deflect.

“I didn’t think Violet wrote her own material.”

Shaking his head, he chuckled, eyes glinting down at her. “God love you two…thinking you hold your cards so close to your chests.”

She tried to act disgusted, summoning up all the bitch-energy left in reserves, praying that he would just…buy her bullshit and leave it be.

“I’m not even attracted to…Trust me: your wife is not my type. At all.”

Karl brushed his knuckles under her chin, his wedding band catching her skin. He saw right through her.

Trixie bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the sudden and almost irrepressible urge to snap at his fingers. She couldn’t stand his smug face lording over her, his eyes roaming over her body. He really got off on this fucked-up power trip, she realized. More than he should, even as a creeper who’d bought his bride. For him, this whole drama was more than just a voyeuristic girl-on-girl, cuckolding fantasy, it was a reinforcement of his power–professional, emotional, sexual blackmail.

If she didn’t have so much riding on this Showcase, if this prick weren’t her golden ticket, she would have walked. (On principle. Because she had principles, Linda.) But she couldn’t go back to playing to dead crowds at open mics or singing for espresso change in hipster coffeehouses. She couldn’t go back to Wisconsin with her tail between her legs to another old, domineering man whose favorite pastime was putting out his cigarettes on her inner thighs and then trying to weasel between them whenever mom worked graveyard at the interstate _7-11_.

She couldn’t do that.

She wouldn’t do that.

Abruptly, a cheap karaoke version of “Nights in White Satin” chimed from Karl’s suit jacket.

“Well, looks like you’re up, sweetheart,” he said, turning away from her as he answered the call, “Don’t fuck it up.”

In afterthought, Karl tossed the beat-up pack of Marlboros aside. It slid under Trixie’s seat.

Knowing that Katya was out there did not allay her nerves. She never meant for this song to see the light of day. (She shouldn’t have let Von Shayd catch her work-shopping it in the studio. Or agreed to make it the goddamn title track of her demo. Even though it was easily the best song she’d written in…maybe ever.)

With her guitar slung over her chest, Trixie took center stage, her boots clomping against the lacquered wood. Grabbing the mic for a sound check, she watched Von Shayd navigate through the darkened sea of tables toward his wife. Katya sat alone.

“Let’s check levels. Switch the mic,” Michel ordered into his head-set, gesturing to the stage, “Alright, Trixie, blow us away, hon!”

#

It hurt to watch Violet fail.

Katya felt it in her chest every time Violet teetered on her stilettos or flubbed her lyrics. Every time she tripped on one of the dancers. Every time Violet’s black-fire eyes found her sitting in the darkness, blaming her for every misstep. Every time, Katya’s heart beat a little faster, because she really couldn’t disagree. Because she knew, that in some part, she was responsible for Violet’s lack of focus at this crucial time.

They hadn’t spoken since that day. No calls. No texts. No nothing.

Violet refused to answer any of Katya’s attempts at communication. She seemed determined to amputate Katya from every aspect her life. It was bratty and irritating and childish, but then (Katya remembered) Violet was still something of a child, wasn’t she? Twenty-one years old. It was so easy to forget. She commanded any room she set foot in, her beauty cold, her stare precise, her voice like a flail–cutting right to the heart of things. She had such backbone.

When Katya was twenty-one, she was nothing like Violet. She was rudderless. Idealistic. Manic. Anonymous, even unto herself. Living on the street, she used to make up names for herself. Valyusha for a bed, Anya for a meal, Lyuba for a lay. Patchwork identities that she wore for a night or two and then left discarded on someone’s floor like a pair of torn panties. It was easy to hustle and float.

Sometimes, it was even fun.

When Katya was twenty-one, she wasn’t a sleek, haunting wisp like Violet. She wasn’t a bountiful, star-eyed beauty like Trixie. She was sexy. She was dirty. She was a bootleg VHS nympho-girl with a runaway heart. When she was twenty-one, she was _raw_.

Katya looked away from the stage as Violet flubbed another stanza.

Violet had always insisted that Katya was just another infrequent lover in an ever-changing rotation of infrequent lovers; and that had always suited Katya just fine. In fact, Katya had been glad to hear it; because surely, their cloak-and-dagger arrangement couldn’t be enough for Violet. Couldn’t really satisfy.

Katya never meant to hurt her. She never thought she _could_.

Violet tripped over one of the dancers.

Beside her, glaring at the stage, Karl fumed. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he seethed, taking another clinking gulp of his armagnac, “That little cunt is gonna be the end of me.”

Eventually, when one of the dancers snapped out of line, the stage director bounded on stage to defuse the situation. “Ladies! Alright, alright!”

“Taking a break,” Karl groused at the scene, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

A smoke break sounded delicious right about now.

Katya popped open her clutch, pulling her last pack; but she no sooner slipped a cigarette, when Karl swooped in and snatched it out of her hand. He tucked the pack into his jacket pocket.

She wanted to slap the shit out him. Instead, she placed a hand on his thigh and smiled. Her smile always helped.

(Back in Solntsevo, a long time ago, a very serious girl with a shaved head, a ruby pout, and elegant paint-stained fingers once stroked her hair and held her close and told her that her smile could end wars. Katya remembered laughing, dipping her tongue into the dimples at the base of her spine, and telling oh-so-serious Sasha that her pussy could probably start them.)

“One?” She purred, holding up a finger.

He smiled, held her chin, and kissed her in that greedy, self-indulgent way that he always did: Whenever he took one kiss, he always came back for two more.

“I know it hurts, sugar,” he said, feigning compassion as his thumb plucked at her lower lip, his eyes trained on it, “But I can always taste where this mouth has been. I know when you cheat.”

Katya pulled away, resolved to pick up another pack later. Whenever Karl felt particularly frisky, she usually killed-two-birds-with-one-stone and sent Alyssa out on the errand; and judging by the way he looked at her now, and how frustrated he was with Violet’s performance, Katya had the sinking suspicion that he’d try to take her to Pound Town tonight.

It made the remainder of the rehearsal all the more unbearable.

By the end of it, Violet still hadn’t redeemed her abysmal recital and rushed offstage as soon as Michel called it for the night. Downing the rest of his drink, Karl ran off after her.

Katya drummed her nails on her sweating glass of water, swiping her thumb across the red lipstick imprinted on the rim.

He wouldn’t fire her. She knew that. Violet was it: The Real Deal.

She still worried.

Katya always kept her eyes trained on the horizon, waiting for the first flicker of the come down. The crash after the high. In her experience, everything sweet eventually turned sour. She remembered standing hand-in-hand with Dimitri under gray skies, grifting and swindling the local _shestyorkas_. Always the honey-pot, in her fur coat and ripped fishnets, Katya easily charmed the second-rate mobsters long enough for Dimitri to push a bad deal. And as they ran, she’d bounce on Dimitri’s back, adrenaline lifting her laughter as she tipped a cheap bottle of vodka to the sky. They’d kiss with all the desperate verve of being young, broke, and criminal.

Then, one night, Dimitri slunk back to their hole-in-the-wall with a bloody nose, a purple eye, and a few mangled fingers. Everything changed after that.

Katya startled when she felt a wet kiss press against her neck, relaxing only when she recognized her husband in the dark. He pulled out the chair beside her and slung his arm along the back of her seat.

“That little bitch has some nerve, I’ll tell you,” he huffed, tossing his phone on the table.

“One of her greatest assets, I think.”

He snorted, glancing at her sidelong. “And here I thought it was that tight little ass.”

Something about the way he said it made her uneasy. Nevertheless, Katya flashed him a smile. “That too.”

He laughed and gestured to the stage. “And what about that one?”

Katya followed his line of sight as Trixie stepped on stage, a guitar slung over her shoulder. In her little pink sundress, with her rosy cheeks and dewy skin and bombastic curves, Trixie looked like the American girl of her dreams. A buxom honey blonde. Ice cream and fireworks and Saturday sunsets. Around her, Katya felt warm. Hopeful. Honest.

It was a weird sensation considering the bare handful of times that Katya had spent with the young blonde.

Karl pulled her back to grim reality, his fingers grazing her collarbone. “What’s her greatest asset, d’ythink?”

Katya took a swig of water. “Great set of lungs,” she said, without missing a beat.

He _loved_ that. She knew he would.

Trixie’s gentle strumming filled the auditorium. The lights shuttered, casting a sweet pastel glow on the stage, illuminating the gold in her hair and the piping of her guitar. Where Violet’s number was a full course meal, Trixie’s was the scoop of sorbet that followed.

For a moment, she fidgeted on stage. Then, she began with the opening chords of “Strawberry Moon” only to hit a discordant note before the first stanza.

“Shit. Sorry,” she mumbled into the microphone stand, her eyes skirting over to Katya and Karl before she cleared her throat and started over.

It went well until…

_“Stars are soaring, but I’m just touring, It’s so boring and Ka-”_

She choked.

“For Chrissakes,” Karl snarled, snatching his phone from the table and pushing out his seat.

On stage, Trixie practically deflated.

Katya panicked, grabbing his arm. “Karl! _Podozhdi, pozhaluista_ ,” she pled, only for him to shake her off.

“Stay for the rest, Katya” he ordered, already bringing his phone to his ear, “And let me know if this shitshow gets any better.”

As Trixie watched him leave, a stricken expression shadowed her face.

The stage director cleared his throat. “Alright, well, maybe we should just re-sched–”

“No! No. From the top!” Katya shouted from the table, flailing her arms, shocked at the volume of her own voice, “ _Yeshche raz_! Again, please!”

Locking eyes with Trixie, Katya gave her an encouraging nod. After a moment of hesitation, the songbird looked away, squared her shoulders, and began again.

#

After her rehearsal, Trixie hot-footed it to one of the empty green rooms. She flung her Gibson on the sofa and collapsed into one of the dressing room chairs. Hunched over, she held her head in her hands. After a minute or two of trying to hold it back, Trixie finally succumbed to tears. Feeling so pathetic. Humiliated, even. Sure, she’d been able to pull it together after Dickhead charged off, but she still failed. She seized up. She _fucked it up._

And God, how completely mortifying was it to sing that song in front of Katya, watching her sway along to it, blushing (blushing, fuck-her-life) when the Russian stood, clapping like crazy and beaming at her. “Run it again! Again!”

Katya was so ridiculous. And beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful, looking like a 90s Versace fever-dream in black and gold. Like prime-time. Trixie glanced up at herself in the mirror, her blonde curls falling out of turn, her lipstick fading with each worried pass, her eyeliner fluffing around her pink eyes. Total disaster.

Trixie wanted to burn that stupid song.

The door clicked and Trixie ducked beneath a halo of hair, sucking up her tears with an ugly snort.

Sure enough, Katya edged through the doorway. She twiddled with one of her rings and stuck near the wall.

“You did great, Trixie,” she assured her, “It was good.”

Yeah, she did. She did do good. She’d recovered and then delivered. But Trixie knew that between her and Violet, she was the expendable one. She knew it. With one misstep, Karl could write her off as a pet project that never took flight. Acoustic singer-songwriters weren’t exactly _en vogue_ nowadays, churning out club hits, selling out arenas, booking gigs on _SNL_.

If she wasn’t the absolute _best_ at what she did, she wouldn’t _be_ anything.

“You will be fine,” Katya babbled, squirming with Trixie’s lack of response, “You will. I feel it. And I promise, I will scatter bones across the street for _yudacha_. You do not need it, of course! You do not need it. Just…to be safe….”

Trixie sniffled. “Look, Katya, I’m sorry but can you just like..leave me alone? Please.”

Katya could tell that she’d been crying. It was written all over her face.

Shit.

“Are you okay?”

Trixie gestured to her face. “Do I seem _okay_ to you?”

Holding up her hands, Katya lowered her head and surrendered. As she moved to leave, Trixie’s stomach knotted.

“Wait, wait, I’m sorry. Don’t go,” she sighed, flopping back on her seat, avoiding her tragic reflection in the mirror, “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just…you don’t understand. I can’t flop like that. I can’t fail at this. I can’t go home.”

Katya perched herself on the vanity table, her gaze so unguarded and sympathetic that it took Trixie aback. “No, I do, Trixie,” she husked, her accent thick, “I do understand that.”

“Yeah,” Trixie sighed, “I guess you kinda do.”

Katya reached out, touching her shoulder, staring into her eyes. “Trust me. Your time is coming. Do not let all that rattle you…” Her hand swirled toward the door. “Nothing good blowjob can not fix.”

She smiled so convincingly that Trixie almost believed her. “Thanks? I think.”

With a cheery nod, Katya slipped from the table and turned to inspect her lipstick in the mirror. Trixie tried not to stare at the curve of her ass in that black dress.

“Hey, um…” She sat up, grabbing at the purse squashed beneath the neck of her guitar, “I think…Are these yours?”

Trixie held out the beat-up pack of cigs and swore to herself that she would never-ever adopt the habit just from the way Katya’s face lit up.

“Oh! _Spasiba balʹshoye_! Oh my God, you are angel.” She clutched the pack like a holy totem and began peppering Trixie’s fingers with tiny, grateful kisses. Laughing, Trixie squirmed and then gasped, hyper-focusing on the feel of her lips–their softness, their fullness, the barest hint of wetness–until she finally wrenched her hand away.

“Oh my God, ew, _stop_.”

Her bare skin still tingled everywhere Katya’s lips had touched. Massaging her knuckles, Trixie tried to rub the feeling away, knowing it wouldn’t work. Hell, she’d already tried rubbing one out just to get Katya out of her system and look how well that turned out….

Giddy, Katya bounced on her heels and bit her lip, suddenly filled with new verve. “Trixie. Can I ask you a question? Do you mind?”

“Well, I mean…that would depend on the question, wouldn’t it, Barbara?”

“Okay. Promise you will not laugh at me. Remember: I am foreign.”

Feeling lighter and breezier, Trixie wiped away her smudged makeup and laughed. “I promise.”

“What is…strawberry moon? What is it?”

And just like that: Trixie wanted to fling herself off a balcony and have her internal organs pan-sear on the concrete.

“It’s uh…it’s uh….”

Katya stared at her, oh-so-interested.

“It’s like a Farmers’ Almanac type thing,” she explained, using her hands to distract from the burning of her cheeks, “Old superstitions about when it’s a good time to harvest fruits and vegetables and stuff like that….”

Katya nodded.

“…and y’know, the Strawberry Moon is prime time for picking the sweetest strawberries. It doesn’t last long. There’s one rising tonight, actually. If you catch it at the right time, it’s like…bright pink. And huge.”

“You love pink,” Katya murmured, as if contemplating something.

Deflect, deflect, deflect.

Trixie forced a laugh. “Yeah, genius, whatever gave _that_ away?”

Turning away, Trixie popped her guitar case to gather her things and beat a fast retreat before….

“Can I ask you another question?”

Filled with nerves, Trixie let the weight of her guitar case drop against her thigh. She was so unprepared for this. If she turned around and saw Katya piecing it all together, waiting for a confession like something out of a rosé-stained, dime-store romance…she wouldn’t know where to start or where it would end.

But instead, she found Katya with a mischievous grin and a hip cocked against the vanity, twirling a set of keys around her index finger.

“Can you drive stick?”


	7. i wanted to be with you alone and talk about the weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "Head Over Heels" - Tears for Fears}

In lieu of _facing-the-music_ in a stuffy dressing room, Trixie instead agreed to drive Katya’s gleaming white Porsche up to Mulholland Drive for the rise of the Strawberry Moon.

“I have never been a car as nice as this,” Trixie breathed, her hands hovering over the steering wheel, “Are you…I mean, you’re _sure_ you want me to drive?”

Sliding into the passenger seat, Katya blew a raspberry and tossed her hair. “ _Ne bespokoysya_. There’s nothing to it.”

“I feel like I should sign a waiver or something.”

“You are going to be famous!” She waved her hands around. “You need to learn how to enjoy expensive crap.”

Hesitantly, Trixie started the car, revving the engine as the FM crooned 80s synthpop. The sexy sports-car boasted way more power than her rattling little junker, which looked like a sad scrap heap at the far end of the parking garage.  

“Ok. Like…that’s real touchy, though.”

“Oh, live a little, _zvyozdochka_ *,” Katya laughed, holding a cigarette between her teeth. Lifting each shapely leg, she tossed a pair of ( _very_ ) expensive pumps into the backseat. Trixie fiddled with the stick, dropping it into Reverse. As she eased the clutch, feeling for the catch, Trixie couldn’t focus. She tried not to stare. At the Blahniks flung from Katya’s long fingers. Or the smooth lines of muscle in her thighs. Or the way her neckline gaped ever-so-slightly, the curve of her breasts dewy with the evening heat.

Trixie’s foot twitched against the gas.

The car rocketed backward.

Trixie stomped on the break, her hair whooshing forward as the car screeched and stalled. Slamming a palm against the dash, Katya (barely) caught herself from flying through the windshield.

“I told you it was touchy!” Trixie gasped, her cheeks flaming red, “Oh my God, are you okay?”

Katya’s hair veiled her face. Her unlit cigarette poked out from the strands. And the nerve of her…She started _wheezing_ with laughter, her shoulders shaking as she pushed back her hair.

Relieved, Trixie took a deep breath, calming her erratic heartbeat. “Shut up,” she laughed.

“You sure know how to get the heart pumping, Trixie Mattel.”

Trixie glanced over her shoulder. A pristine black Jaguar was within kissing distance of the bumper. “Don’t do that.”

With a cheeky smile, Katya shrugged. “What?”

“Flirt with me after a near disaster!”

“That is the best time to do it, Tracey!”

Then, Katya’s smile turned sly and she reached for the ignition. “Maybe I _should_ drive.”

“No! I got it! I got it.”

Shielding her lighter with an open palm, Katya set the cigarette ablaze and melted into her seat. After the engine turned over, Trixie concentrated on her left sole, mindful of the heel as she coaxed the clutch. _Ease it right to the edge_ , she coached herself, _pull out in 2nd and show her how it’s done_.

Coax it.

Ease it.

Shift into…

The stick wouldn’t move. Trixie struggled with it, her pink nails digging into the patent leather as the gears began grinding. Katya reached over and laid her hand over Trixie’s knuckles, wiggling the shifter roughly until they both slammed it into the groove.

“Now, try,” she mumbled, cigarette bobbing between her lips.

Sure enough, the car eased forward without any trouble and Trixie began to gently–maybe, too gently–guide the Porsche toward the white-bright exit of the parking garage.

“First lesson in living large,Tracey,” Katya said, pointing at her with the glowing end of her cigarette, “A lot of cheap things cost a lot of money.”

“Like you?” Trixie ventured, rolling down the passenger side window.

Katya snorted. “ _Exactly_! You catch on quick! Take that Jaguar back there. Beautiful car, shitty electrical engineering.”

As the car wheeled out into the sultry California sunset, Katya blew a plume of smoke out the open window. Trixie held her breath as the sherbert light cut across Katya’s jaw, reflecting off her pale eyes as she adjusted a hank of hair over her shoulder and ashed out the side.

“Keep your eyes on the road, _zvyozdochka_.”

Flustered, Trixie tried to cover her ass: making a show of checking both ways before peeling out into the street. “Pfft. You wish, grandma.”

Katya just laughed, taking another slow draw from her smoke.

As they drove, chasing the twilight, Trixie couldn’t escape the romantic quality of it all. The two of them riding off into the sunset. On a white…horse? While the sweet synthy bells of Tears for Fears tolled over the radio and the evening air swept through the open windows, swirling her hair around her face. She didn’t think about all the nerves and insecurities still tugging at her pigtails. Instead, Trixie pushed the gas and let herself enjoy this, punching it up Mulholland Drive as the sun dipped low.

“Here! Here!” Katya said, pulling her feet down, motioning toward a bare spot off the shoulder of the road. Trixie turned in, the tires rasping against the dirt. As soon as she cut the engine, Katya jumped out of the car and slid onto the hood, inviting Trixie up next to her with a few bangs of her hand.

“God, this isn’t even my car and I’m appalled,” Trixie said, rounding the hood. Gingerly, she lifted her knee and then climbed up, holding Katya’s witch-claw for balance until her ass hit the hood.

“The very picture of grace and dignity.”

Trixie laughed. “Fuck off. You’re the one who wanted to do this, remember?”

Katya pulled her knees to her chest, her red toenails fluttering against the hood. Looking out over dusky Los Angeles, they sat for a while, enjoying the breeze in silence, before they finally saw it: the brilliant pink moonrise, floating through the last blast of sunlight diffused along the horizon.

“Wow,” Katya sighed, her smile slow,  “Look at that.”

She stared at the Strawberry Moon for a long time, resting her cheek on her knees, deep in thought. For once, she seemed content not to make conversation.

“You’re welcome,” Trixie murmured, watching her.

From inside the car, Katya’s phone rang.

The sound set Trixie on edge–hearing it ring and ring and ring. “Do you want to–?”

“No.”

Trixie swallowed hard. “What if it’s Violet?”

Katya turned to look at her, her hair falling over her legs. “It’s not Violet.”

Just the way Katya said her name, _Violet_ , so forlorn and deep and soft…

She hated being jealous. She hated that she couldn’t quite mask it. But, most of all, she hated that it wasn’t Violet’s career or her worldliness or even her perfect Armani body that she envied most. It was that secret corner she shared with Katya, outside of everyone else at the party–all the trysts already done, all the twists already in motion, all the hidden things that existed long before Trixie Mattel caught them fucking in the ladies’ room of a five-star restaurant.

She wished Katya would look at her now and just…know. Know that Trixie thought about her endlessly, to the point of mental exhaustion, only to think about her some more. That she wanted everything about her, even though she knew next to nothing. That She kinda inspired her. That She kinda scared her. That She kinda thrilled her. And that She made her so hot that Trixie needed to lock her bedroom door at two in the morning to sigh against her pillow, gasping at the ceiling until she saw stars.

She kinda ruined her life.

Trixie wished she _knew_ how much she’d replayed that one, stupid kiss over and over and over until regret soured in her stomach. If only she hadn’t been such a pussy. If only she’d done _this_ , if only she’d done _that_.

“You can tell me about it if you want. I swear I won’t be weird about it,” Trixie said, her smile tight, her words a little…clipped. “Only if you want.”

Katya sighed. “Drama. Betrayal. Scandal. Intrigue. Madness. Tomfoolery. Shenanigans,” she said, still unpackaging it in her mind, “All of that. None of that.”

“Well, I mean…that’s love, right?” Trixie offered, trying to provide her some kind of comfort.

But instead, Katya looked even more troubled than before. A crease formed between her brows as she stared up at the moon, its color fading as the earth turned its cheek further from the sun.

She looked so anxious. So sad. Thinking about _Violet_.

Trixie didn’t know if it was selfishness or jealousy or just a sugary desperation to make Katya feel good; but, she turned and reached for her face. The heel of her hand took some of the red from Katya’s lips before Trixie surged forward and tasted them.

Katya’s lips were so soft against her mouth, her hair so soft in her hands, that all the blood rushed to Trixie’s head, dreamy and fizzy; until Katya’s tongue was so hard, her breath so hot, that she felt that dark, sweet plummeting between her legs. Pulse going wild, Trixie let herself feel it and want it and whimper against the other woman’s lips. She wanted to straddle her. She wanted her hands all over her. She wanted Katya to press her against the hood of her car and fuck her in the pale pink moonlight and know and see and feel how much she wanted her. She wanted to make her feel good. She wanted to leave her reeling. She wasn’t scared of it anymore. She was ready for her, now.

Katya broke the kiss.

“Wh-?”

“Sorry,” Katya choked out, her voice trembling. Breathing hard, she adjusted the panels of her dress and touched the edges of her lips. “Trixie. I-I’m..I can’t do this.”

“Oh my God,” Trixie whispered, hands flying to her forehead. “I thought…I thought we…I thought you were still into me…I thought….”

Katya touched her thigh. “I am, Trixie! I am, I am, I mean…I was. I think you are unbelievable. It just….This cannot happen now.”

Trixie swallowed the lump in her throat, understanding.

She’d missed her shot.

This wasn’t their time.

(Fuck, had it _ever_ been but for a small charged moment in Katya’s secret room? Would it ever come again?)

“Please, Trixie, do not be embarrassed.”

“Yeah, I’ll try that,” she chuckled, her voice watery, “But no guarantees.”

Katya’s fingers pressed gently on Trixie’s thigh before she retracted her hand. “Thank you for showing me this.”

“Yeah. Um…anytime.”

Grabbing the keys, Katya slipped off the hood. She stretched her arms behind her head, her smile gentle and sad. “I encourage you to stick a few pins in my voodoo doll. I love acupuncture,” she said, “…and…I know I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.” Trixie shook her head, wiping at her cheeks. “God, I feel like such a mess.”

“Me too.”

“Well, I mean…To be fair, being a mess is _normal_ for you.”

Katya bent over, laughing, and Trixie was so weak for it. For the rasp in her voice, the brightness in her smile, the way her whole body moved with joy.

She rounded the hood, passing beside her.

“Katya, wait,” Trixie blurted out, needing to say it, needing to be brave, even though it wouldn’t make any difference now.

The barefooted woman stopped, staring down at her.

“It’s about you,” Trixie confessed, “The song…the whole demo…it’s about you.”

Katya reached for her hand, assisting her to solid ground. Trixie finally stood tall. Still in heels, Trixie towered over her and she tried to siphon some strength from it, even though her knees felt like jelly.

If there was one thing she’d come to expect from Katya, it was flashes of incandescent energy: the way she laughed, the way she talked, the way she kissed. She didn’t expect the older woman’s tenderness or the way she tippy-toed to give her a short, sweet peck on the lips.

“I am not what you want,” she insisted, her voice thick and soft.

“No, you’re not,” Trixie said, knowing that she spoke the truth, “But sometimes…you _are_.”

Katya reached for her, playing with an errant curl of Trixie’s hair, staring at her lips. Then, she backed away and tilted her head toward the car. “Come on. Let me drive you home.”

The ride back was quiet. The glowing console burned into Trixie’s eyes as Katya lit another cigarette, the night air cascading through the carriage of the car. Trixie only spoke to give Katya directions back to the pad she shared with Pearl, who was thankfully absent when she snuck through the door.

From her bedroom window, Trixie peeked through the curtains and watched Katya’s car idling in front of her building. It sat there for a little while, spraying light across the asphalt.

When the Porsche finally pulled away, Trixie knew it wasn’t headed in the direction of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Little Star"


	8. california, i didn't think you'd end up treating me so bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {Chapter Title: "California" - Grimes}

Violet burned the Showcase. Maimed it. Destroyed it. Just like she said she would.

She hit every move and every note, toying with her captive audience.

The house erupted in applause for her. All the execs, managing producers, stable artists. Not to mention all the journalists from the likes of _Kerrang!_ , _Pitchfork_ , _Billboard_ , and _Nylon_ covering the event.

It was a dream come true _just to play_ for an audience like this. For fuck’s sakes, Alaska herself was out there somewhere.

And for her part, Trixie performed well. No, she performed _great_. Although, she later realized, it didn’t really matter. At the glitzy after-show mixer, no one talked about anyone but Violet. Trixie wasn’t surprised by the reaction–after all, the girl truly killed it–but damn, Trixie was getting real fucking tired of being one-upped by Violet Chachki.

In everything.

But, here she was, sucking down her third Cojito, answering all the short, simple questions lobbed at her from various journalists who needed another soundbyte.   _Be grateful_ , she chided herself, _be humble, be present_. Hard to be positive when she was so damn good at being negative, though. Negativity was her bread and butter. What was art but a healthy way to navigate heartache and trauma, right?

Pearl grabbed her arm.

“Dude, where is Violet? I’m obsessed with that track. Think she’d let me remix it?”

Violet had worked the room for a scant thirty minutes before completely vanishing, leaving everyone wanting more. Including Pearl, who had promised she’d attend the Showcase as Trixie’s supportive cousin rather than hyper-hottie DJ Vladonna.

So much for that.

Trixie downed her drink. “Remix? Don’t you just hit shuffle and call it a day?”

Pearl narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, my bad. She’s probably in the ladies room, right? Snacking on some Soviet snatch.”

Trixie’s face fell. She’d been trying so hard not to think about Katya. Not to look for her. Not to expect her. And until now, she’d been doing…eh, _okay_ with that.

Immediately, Pearl sighed. “Sorry, sorry. That wasn’t cool.”

“No. I was being a bitch.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, y’know, I’m fine. I’m over it,” Trixie said, knowing she couldn’t convince a stranger, let alone Pearl, who’d she treated like her personal diary ever since the dress rehearsal, “I’m over her. It’s….”

“ _Flazeda_?” Pearl cleared her throat. “Like, I know this isn’t the time or the place, Trixie? But there is this girl I’ve wanted you to meet for forever. She’s like real prim and serious and has this like British accent or whatever? I think you’d really jive.”

Trixie knew that Pearl was trying her hardest to help, even though she knew about as much about rejection as she did rocket science–which was to say, not much at all.

“Thanks, Pearlie Girl,” Trixie said, “That’d be…really cool.”

Pearl smiled and then flounced off to score some old dick with fresh snow.

Trixie eventually left the party without much fanfare. Von Shayd congratulated her on a job well done, assuring her that he’d be in touch.

Twirling her keys around her fingers, Trixie entered the parking garage and began hoofing it up to the roof, debating whether she wanted to round out her ‘big night’ by ripping into a pint of Cherry Garcia or puffing on one of Pearl’s dab pens until she could see Jesus’ eyes.

(Realistically, she knew that one would likely lead to the other.)

Maybe she _would_ let Pearl set her up. Sure, it’d be disastrous, but she wasn’t exactly doing great on her own. She needed a good rebound–a good rebound from the devastating non-breakup of an all-consuming non-relationship with an unavailable woman she’d only ever kissed.

Fuck her life. Seriously.

_Don’t think about it._

_Don’t think about her._

_It’s over. It’s done. It never even began._

_And it’s okay._

Standing on the roof, Trixie lifted her head to the night sky, letting the breeze cool her scalp as she raked a mass of blonde curls over to one side.

The hurt would pass. Eventually. She’d get over it. For real. Eventually.

 _At least today is better than yesterday_ , she told herself, almost believing it until she recognized Katya’s car sitting beneath a tall lamp post.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The orange funnel of light illuminated the shapes moving in the backseat.

For the first time that night, she saw Katya– her head thrown back against the seat, platinum hair strewn across the leather. Her nails scrabbled against the window, clutching onto the seat-belt, as her breasts swelled with each quickening breath. She murmured something as her free hand drifted downward.

Rooted to the sport, Trixie felt all her calm collapsing in slow-motion. She knew who was in the car with her. Only one person it could be. She knew who was responsible for the blissful grin that blazed across Katya’s face, for the violent tilt of her chin, for the way her eyes crossed and fluttered closed. Trixie knew whose name she moaned out as she came.

When Violet’s head finally emerged, Katya stroked her dark hair, prompting the other woman to bat it away. She probably said something _deliciously_ bitchy because it had Katya laughing, all boneless and blissed-out. Holding her by the chin, Katya looked at Violet with sleepy eyes: so fond, so proud, so happily _fucked_. She dragged her in for a kiss that deepened and deepened and deepened until Violet crawled into her lap, rocking against her thigh, slow and hard.

This time, no one saw Trixie watching.

This time, it wasn’t hot. This time, she didn’t feel any secret, dirty thrill at watching them.

She wanted to slam her hand against the window. She wanted to cry.

_Don’t think about it._

She clenched her teeth.

_Don’t think about her._

She tore her eyes away.

_It’s over. It’s done. It never even began._

Trixie scurried away, hurrying to her car.

_And it’s okay._

#

White-knuckling her phone, Trixie’s hand trembled.

“…you want to _what_?”

Karl’s matter-of-fact voice crackled over the line, repeating himself: “Saboteur wants to give the song to Violet. They think it’s better suited for her.”

Blindsided, Trixie’s face cracked her green tea mask. She paced her bedroom in threadbare panties, her hair swirled into a towel, gnawing on a birthday cake pop.

“I-I…don’t understand.”

“That’s the business, sweetheart,” he explained, “It’s just not your time.”

Just not her time.

Seemed to be the running theme for her summer.

Trixie hurled the cake-pop into the trash.

“You’re just not the sound or the look they want right now. It’s nothing personal, honey.”

“That _song_ is personal,” she gasped, close to tears, hating him in that moment more than she’d ever hated anyone, “You know that song is personal. I wrote that song. That’s my song!”

He gave her a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not my call.”

“No! She can’t have it. I don’t care if you have to drop me. No. _No_. I won’t give it to her. She can’t have it.”

“No one’s asking, honey,” he said, unfazed by her outburst, “You signed a contract. The song was bought before you set foot in that recording booth. Venti Breve. No foam. Extra shot. Extra _hot_.”

Had she committed some great karmic injustice in a previous life? Just the thought of her song–that stupid, beautiful song–being dissected and reassembled into some flighty electro-pop ballad….

She’d see Violet _performing_ it.

She’d hear Violet _singing_ it.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Listen, sweetheart,” he started, slurping on his latte, “Hmmurgh. Extra hot. I said extra hot, Christ on a stick…Saboteur wants to extend you an opportunity. A _good_ opportunity. A time-sensitive offer, you understand? You write some hits, Violet will sing the hits, we’ll sell the hits, and everyone wins. It’s not what you were hoping for but…listen, honey, you want America to hear your music, it’s gonna be through Violet Chachki’s mouth. That’s just the way it is.”

Trixie wilted against the edge of her bed.

“So, whaddya say?”

#

Violet never wanted “Strawberry Moon.”

She’d railed against it, as much as she could, and refused to sing it for the longest time. No matter what the producers did to it–changed the lyrics, altered the key, switched the genre–Violet refused. At one point, she even coped enough of an attitude that Von Shayd threatened to sever her contract. It was never her song to sing, and he knew it, and still that asshole pushed and pushed and pushed, knowing how much it would hurt all of them for her to perform it.

But, eventually, she’d given in and a year later, she couldn’t say she regretted it either.

“Strawberry Moon” was her breakthrough single. “Strawberry Moon” bought Violet a ticket to tour the world, to live her dream, to pursue her passions. It bought her a new wardrobe. It bought her a new place on Sunset Boulevard. It bought her a new car.

And Violet made damn sure that it bought Karl’s cooperation. A month or two after Violet started getting radio play, he finally acquiesced to letting Katya hold a vernissage at an exhibit in Culver City.

(“You want to take away my freedom as an artist,” she’d said to him, “Then you better give Katya back some of hers.”)

Everything ended up working in Karl’s favor, anyway. Some French director fell in love with Katya’s freaky artwork and asked her to storyboard his breakthrough horror film, which meant more money for the Von Shayds–even if it meant Katya had to spend most of her time floating around Hollywood movie sets and slaving over her easel.

Violet would never tell Katya about her involvement. She’d never tell her how far she would willingly stick out her neck to make Katya happy. She’d never tell her that she’d  started thinking in terms of never and forever whenever she thought about her.

She didn’t need to tell her. Katya already knew.

Violet sat on her terrace, overlooking the twilight Pacific as it surged against the shore, glittering black and pulling back. Her elegant fingers traced the glass table, picking up condensation and spinning the water into patterns. She didn’t pay attention to the blonde sitting at the other end.

“You’re ignoring me,” Trixie said, tapping her pen against the sheet music anchored across the table, “I’m trying to workshop this with you and you are…completely checked-out.”

Somewhere along the way, after Violet acquired Trixie’s song, Saboteur ordered her to utilize Trixie as a resource for her songwriting. Violet hated the term “ghost writer,” because it gave her too little credit; but she also hated the term “creative partner,” because that gave Trixie far too much. Nevertheless, over the past year, Trixie had evolved into something of a hybrid between the two. And with major reluctance, Violet met with her every two weeks to brainstorm tracks for her debut LP.

“I’m not checked-out, bitch,” Violet sighed, rolling her eyes, “I’m waiting for you to show me the good stuff.”

“You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about the time signature on this…and you don’t even want to use it.”

“Because the ¾ time signature is patently wrong, Trixie Mattel,” Violet said, snatching up the sheet music and running her eyes over the bars, “Maybe you could pull off such a simple composition if the lyrics were more complex but….”

She tossed it back.

Trixie pulled off her sunglasses. “Y’know, half the time when Katya calls you a cunt, I think she’s just joking…but then we do this and I _fully_ remember.”

She rolled her eyes, snapping one leg over the other. “Everything I say comes from a place of humor or a place of truth,” she explained, “But I guess that makes me a bitch.”

“Guess so.”

“Well, Katya likes it.”

Violet knew that the two of them ‘hung out.’ Even with Katya’s limited schedule, she always found time for Trixie. To grab coffee, catch a movie, get together for brunch.

Violet didn’t let it bother her. But whenever Trixie dropped by her place, Violet also didn’t _bother_ hiding the cigarette packs sprinkled around her apartment, the trashy pieces of lingerie stuffed into the cushions of her couch, or the old Soviet textbooks scattered across her coffee table. She let her see all of Katya’s little artifacts. Hell, she even let Karl see them.

Listen, sometimes Violet just needed to break it down for a bitch. Even if it hurt. Through singing her songs, Violet quickly ascertained one dangerous quality that she shared with Trixie Mattel: The two of them were very, slightly, extremely _possessive_. And Violet needed to keep her in check, even though they’d reached a kind of weird détente that neither of them _ever_ talked about.

Violet swept a finger over a waxy lipstick stain smudged against the glass table. It was hers: a deep Medusa. A few days ago, Katya had her bent over this table, fogging up the glass, panties tangled around her knees, as Katya left one of those perfect bite marks on the crest of Violet’s ass. She pressed her thighs together. God, she wished Katya were here now. She’d have Violet trussed up, worked up, and eaten out before sundown.

Instead, she had to deal with this.

“I know you can do better, bitch,” Violet said, glancing sidelong at Trixie, “Don’t be such a pussy. Hand it over.”

Reluctant at first, Trixie handed her another composition. No matter what Trixie gave her, Violet always made her own alterations. Songs were like articles of clothing. No matter the designer, the textile, or the fit…Violet believed that every piece of clothing could be improved with precision tailoring and aesthetic personalization.

And like clothing, some of Trixie’s songs needed a heavier hand than others.

She scanned the newest composition, hearing it in her mind. Violet smiled. This was quality work. She knew exactly why.

“ _White Tiger_. It’s about Katya, isn’t it?”

Trixie huffed. “Believe it or not, Violet, I do interact with other women besides Katya.”

Violet just smirked. “Alright, Trixie Mattel.”

“Ok. It’s _inspired_ by Katya but it’s not _about_ Katya.”

“Just so you know: He’s given me the same speech.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Wish I was.”

The blonde’s back hit the chair. She laughed, looking out over ocean, chewing on her thumb.

“He thinks we’re both just _dying_ for a chance to run away with her,” Violet scoffed, “Waiting for the perfect moment to fuck our lives up.”

Trixie stared at the colors blooming across the horizon, at the new pink moon hovering over the waves. She shifted in her seat. “Don’t you ever want to do it, though? Even just a little?”

Right now, Violet could be aloof. She could even be really fucking cruel. Or dismissive. But she supposed there was something about the June moon that made her a little stupid. Made them both a little stupid.

They should’ve stayed inside.

“Lately, I really-really want to,” Violet admitted, “It’s insane, right?”

Lately, in weak moments, entwined with that lunatic, tasting her sweat, mooning over her sleepy glow, Violet imagined doing something truly stupid with her. In quiet, bruising moments, she wanted to burn it all down and run off to Amsterdam or Berlin to design fetish-wear or something; last year, around this same time, she’d mocked Trixie for dreaming of happy endings. Especially with Katya.

But now, Violet wanted one. She really did.

Violet knew that Trixie still fantasized about those happy endings, too. She saw her work at its freshest, at its messiest. Better than anyone, she knew her heartache.

Sometimes, it got better.

Sometimes, it got worse.

But it never went away. Violet doubted it ever would.

She knew that Trixie still hoped for _someday_. That someday, she would shine bright as Saboteur’s newest, most darling star.  That someday, she might find Katya at her doorstep, with the full moon behind her, ready to love her.

But that life belonged to Violet.

This was her time.

At least, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you care to yell at me, curse at me, or throw hands...I invite you to do so over on Tumblr @vrginsacrifice.)


End file.
